She moved towards the door, hesitated, looked about her with unconsciously appealing eyes. She moved forward again, and on to her purpose.
"Well?" said the Doctor, who stood before a table covered with scientific apparatus. "Is it about Olga?"
"No, dear father. It's about Irene."
He smiled; his face softened to tenderness.
"And what about Mam'zelle Wren? It's hard on Wren, all this worry at such a time."
"If it didn't sound so selfish, I should say it had all happened for my good. I suppose we can't help seeing the world from our own little point of view."
"What follows on this philosophy?"
"Something you won't like to hear, I know; but I beg you to be patient with me. When were you not? I never had such need of your patience and forbearance as now—Father, I cannot marry Arnold Jacks. And I have told him that I can't."
The Doctor very quietly laid down a microscopic slide. His forehead grew wrinkled; his lips came sharply together; he gazed for a moment at an open volume on a high desk at his side, then said composedly:
"This is your affair, Irene. All I can do is to advise you to be sure of your own mind."