“Iris, do not forget,” he began, but she drew herself shudderingly away from him, saying, as she moved slowly toward the door:
“I shall not forget the debt I owe you; I am going to pay it now—to pay it in full.”
There was no tremor in the low, sweet voice as she spoke these words, but her face, turned for a moment toward him as she crossed the threshold, was so pitifully white and hopeless that a momentary thrill of compassion stirred Oscar Hilton’s heart, and he muttered to himself as he listened to the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs:
“Pshaw! she does not mean all that nonsense. I would never let her do that, but she shall not stand in my Isabel’s light. Ah, my daughter! I was thinking of you; was I speaking my thoughts aloud?”
He had spoken the last words audibly, just as the object of his thoughts entered the room.
“What is the matter, papa? I just passed Iris in the hall, looking like a ghost, and came in here to find you raving about somebody standing in my light. Tell me what it is all about, please; I hate anything approaching a mystery.”
Isabel spoke in the cold, imperious tones that were peculiar to her, but her father answered her almost humbly:
“There is no mystery, my darling; do not distress yourself. Don’t go yet, Isabel, I want to talk with you. You have not told me how you enjoyed yourself at Mrs. Laurier’s last night. Were there many there? Was Mr. St. John among the guests at any time during the evening?”
The last question was asked so earnestly that Isabel showed her white teeth in a laugh.
“You are always so anxious about Chester St. John, papa; I think you have set your heart upon having him for a son-in-law; is it not so, mon père ?”