self-possession on Mountjoy's appearance, with the ease of a mistress
of her art. "Pardon me," she said, holding up her book with one hand,
and tapping it indicatively with the other: "Shakespeare carries me out
of myself. A spark of the poet's fire burns in the poet's humble
servant. May I hope that I have made myself understood? You look as if
you had a fellow-feeling for me."

Mountjoy did his best to fill the sympathetic part assigned to him, and
only succeeded in showing what a bad actor he would have been, if he
had gone on the stage. Under the sedative influence thus administered,
Mrs. Vimpany put away her book, and descended at once from the highest
poetry to the lowest prose.

"Let us return to domestic events," she said indulgently. "Have the
people at the inn given you a good dinner?"

"The people did their best," Mountjoy answered cautiously.

"Has my husband returned with you?" Mrs. Vimpany went on.

Mountjoy began to regret that he had not waited for Iris in the street.
He was obliged to acknowledge that the doctor had not returned with
him.

"Where is Mr. Vimpany?"

"At the inn."

"What is he doing there?"