After his abrupt departure Iris turned impulsively to her hostess.
"Mrs. Carstairs"—her voice was disturbed—"what was wrong with Dr. Anstice just now? Did my singing displease him? He got up and went so—so unexpectedly."
For a moment Chloe said nothing. Then:
"Don't you think you are rather too imaginative, Iris? Probably Dr. Anstice remembered some urgent case, and thought he ought to go at once."
"No. I don't think that was it." Iris sank down on to the cushioned window-seat and gazed thoughtfully ahead. "I think——I wonder if that last song could have any associations for him? Has he been in India?"
"I don't know." Chloe smiled faintly. "You must ask him, Iris. I suppose your father would send for him if he were ill, wouldn't he, now that Dr. Meade is really gone?"
"I suppose so." Iris spoke rather dreamily. "At first I thought he was quite old—at least forty," said the schoolgirl. "And then, when he talked to Cherry I was not really sure. I guessed he might be worried about professional things and look older than he was. And now——"
She broke off, and for a moment Chloe Carstairs made no rejoinder, though her blue, almond-shaped eyes held a slightly quizzical expression.
"And now"—she said at length—"what is your opinion now?"
"Now"—Iris spoke very slowly, and in her eyes was something of the womanly tenderness and strength whose possibility Anstice had divined—"I think he has the very saddest face I have ever seen in my life."