"Don't reproach yourself, Dr. Anstice. I ... I think I'm rather foolish to-night. And at any rate"—perhaps after all she had divined the soreness which lay beneath his spoken congratulations—"I'm sure of one thing—you did your best to comfort the poor mother."
"Thank you for that, at least," he said; and then, in a different key: "You won't think me rude if I leave after this?"
"Of course not." Suddenly Iris rose, and Anstice, surprised, followed her example. "Dr. Anstice, if you don't mind I'll ask you to take me back now. I think"—she smiled rather shyly—"I think I must just go and bathe my eyes. I don't want any one to ask inconvenient questions!"
Filled with anger against himself Anstice acquiesced at once; and in the hall they parted, Iris speeding upstairs to her room in search of water and Eau de Cologne with which to repair the ravages his heartless speech had caused.
At the last came a consolatory moment.
"Dr. Anstice." She held out her hand once more. "You are the only person—except my father—who knows what has happened to-night. Somehow I wanted to tell you because"—she coloured faintly, and her eyes dropped for a second—"because I think you and I are—really—friends in spite of everything."
"Thank you, Miss Wayne." His tone was so low she could barely catch the words. "Believe me, I value your friendship above everything else in the world."
He wrung her hand hard; and as she left him with a last fleeting smile he turned and found himself face to face with Bruce Cheniston.
At that moment the hall was empty; and before the other man could speak Anstice said quickly:
"So you've won the day, Cheniston. Well, congratulations—though God knows I wish with all my heart that you had failed."