"If I could claim a sovereign," he said, "for every quarrel between
Mrs. Vimpany and myself, I put it at a low average when I declare that
I should be worth a thousand pounds. How does your lordship stand in
that matter? Shall we say a dozen breaches of the marriage agreement up
to the present time?"
"Say two--and no more to come!" his friend answered cheerfully.
"No more to come!" the doctor repeated. "My experience says plenty more
to come; I never saw two people less likely to submit to a peaceable
married life than you and my lady. Ha! you laugh at that? It's a habit
of mine to back my opinion. I'll bet you a dozen of champagne there
will be a quarrel which parts you two, for good and all, before the
year is out. Do you take the bet?"
"Done!" cried Lord Harry. "I propose my wife's good health, Vimpany, in
a bumper. She shall drink confusion to all false prophets in the first
glass of your champagne!"
The post of the next morning brought with it two letters.
One of them bore the postmark of London, and was addressed to Lady
Harry Norland. It was written by Mrs. Vimpany, and it contained a few
lines added by Hugh Mountjoy. "My strength is slow in returning to me"
(he wrote); "but my kind and devoted nurse says that all danger of
infection is at an end. You may write again to your old friend if Lord
Harry sees no objection, as harmlessly as in the happy past time. My
weak hand begins to tremble already. How glad I shall be to hear from
you, it is, happily for me, quite needless to add."
In her delight at receiving this good news Iris impulsively assumed
that her husband would give it a kindly welcome on his side; she
insisted on reading the letter to him. He said coldly, "I am glad to
hear of Mr. Mountjoy's recovery"--and took up the newspaper. Was this
unworthy jealousy still strong enough to master him, even at that
moment? His wife had forgotten it. Why had he not forgotten it too?
On the same day Iris replied to Hugh, with the confidence and affection
of the bygone time before her marriage. After closing and addressing
the envelope, she found that her small store of postage stamps was
exhausted, and sent for her maid. Mr. Vimpany happened to pass the open
door of her room, while she was asking for a stamp; he heard Fanny say
that she was not able to accommodate her mistress. "Allow me to make
myself useful," the polite doctor suggested. He produced a stamp, and
fixed it himself on the envelope. When he had proceeded on his way
downstairs, Fanny's distrust of him insisted on expressing itself. "He
wanted to find out what person you have written to," she said. "Let me
make your letter safe in the post." In five minutes more it was in the
box at the office.