"What do you mean?"
"I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff's invitation and go to Paris. It is deserting you, but——"
Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the floor.
"We must think about that."
Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say more at this juncture. She rose. Her father continued moving hither and thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her presence. To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was not at all sure what the end would be.
"Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?" he threw out, as Irene approached the door.
"Perhaps this afternoon."
He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension. Irene endeavouring to smile in reply, passed from his view.
Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and that she might not be back to luncheon. She did not return. Father and daughter were alone together at the meal. Contrary to Irene's expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual gentleness. Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then she could not trust her voice.
"Let me remind you," he said, observing her lack of appetite, "that an ill-nourished brain can't be depended upon for sanity of argument."