“‘Your Friend,
“‘Peace Field.’”
Iris broke down and left the room, weeping bitterly. Margaret followed her, but the girl pushed her aside. “No,” she whispered, “go back. It is better for me to be alone.”
“I am sorry,” said the Doctor, breaking the painful hush; “perhaps I should have waited. I very much regret having given Miss Iris unnecessary pain.”
“It is as well now as at any other time,” Margaret assured him, “but my heart bleeds for her.”
The clock on the landing struck ten, and Margaret excused herself for a moment. She returned with the Royal Worcester plate, piled with cakes, and a decanter of the port.
“I made them,” she said, in a low tone; “she asked me to give you the recipe.”
“She was always thoughtful of others,” returned the Doctor, choking.
He filled his glass, and from force of habit, offered it to an invisible friend. “To your—” then he stopped.
“To her memory,” sobbed Margaret, touching his glass with hers.
They drank the toast in silence, then the Doctor staggered to his feet.