"You have changed your mood very suddenly, Iris," he declared. "You asked me to come into the drawing-room to hear you sing, and now you tell me that you have changed your mind. What am I to think?"
"Whatever you please," she answered, curtly.
"Tell me one thing, Iris," he murmured, a little hoarsely, bending nearer over the pretty, willful coquette; "were the words of the song you intended to sing suggestive of a sudden coldness between two very near and very dear friends?"
"I will not listen to you!" cried Iris, petulantly.
"I repeat, what have I done to offend you, my dear girl?" he cried.
"Say to yourself that it was surely not my intention nor my will. You asked me to come to the library to listen to some poems. When I stepped into the room I saw at a glance that you had quite forgotten the appointment, Harry, by the picture that met my glance."
He knew in an instant to what she referred—he sitting in the arm-chair with Dorothy by his side, her arms twined about him.
"I did not ask her in there, Iris," he said, huskily. "I found her in there when I entered the apartment. She was evidently waiting for me. She met me with tears and reproaches, and if there is anything that is detestable to a man it is that line of conduct, believe me."
Iris shrugged her shoulders, but made no reply.
"Why did you not come in when you came to the door?" he asked, bending dangerously near the fatally beautiful face so near his own.