It was more, quite a while more, and when I went again into the oak-room of the Saint whose name I forgot to look at Iris met me with accusing eyes. She did not turn her head, she just gave me a sideways, accusing look. Turnings of head were discouraged, she must lie very still, oh for a long time, for that, it seems, is the way of sceptic poisoning. And Masters had said to me in the passage outside: “If she as much as moves a finger, God help you!”
“You should not be in Paris,” she whispered, not without vehemence. “And why are you laughing, please?”
“Why, at your voice! I do believe, Iris, that it’s stronger than you at last.”
“Yes, but you should not be in Paris, that I’m sure of. You have waited to see me,” she complained bitterly, but I protested that never was such nonsense, for why in the name of commonsense would I wait to see her? “But, Iris, the very night I arrived in Paris I had an idea for a tale, and I thought I would stay in Paris to write it.”
“You must tell it to me. Oh, at once. Oh, please....” And the voice expired. And we waited. “I can’t laugh,” she said bitterly, “because it hurts. Everything hurts....”
“Iris,” I said, “I am so sorry....”
“Yes.” She gave me a long sideways look.
“Yes,” she said. “But please to tell me your tale. What is it about? What is it called?”
“No, Iris, I mustn’t tell it to you. It was indiscreet of me to mention it, and you only just returned from the valley of death. It is a terrible story. Every one dies. It is about a man who would not dance with his wife.”
“Yes, but ... Oh, why wouldn’t he dance with his wife? What a silly man! You do get some beastly ideas, I do think....”