She reflected for a moment. "You don't surely mean one of Mr. Vimpany's friends?" she said.
He pretended not to have heard her, and pointed to the view of the garden from the window. "Isn't it a lovely day? Let's go and look at the flowers," he suggested.
"Did you not hear what I said to you just now?" she persisted.
"I beg your pardon, dear; I was thinking of something else. Suppose we go into the garden?"
When women have a point to gain in which they are interested, how many of them are capable of deferring it to a better opportunity? One in a thousand, perhaps. Iris kept her place at the window, resolved on getting an answer.
"I asked you, Harry, whether the person who is to occupy our spare bedroom, to-night, was one of Mr. Vimpany's friends?"
"Say one of Mr. Vimpany's patients—and you will be nearer the truth," he answered, with an outburst of impatience.
She could hardly believe him. "Do you mean a person who is really ill?" she said.
"Of course I mean it," he said; irritated into speaking out, at last.
"A man? or a woman?"