I was mistaken. If I didn't know that you have little patience with such words, I should say that it shows something wrong in our social habits. Yet that's foolish; you are right, that is quite silly. It isn't our habits that are to blame but our natures--the very nature of things. I had to engage myself to you before I could know that I ought to have done nothing of the kind."
She paused, suddenly breathless, and a cough seized her.
"You've taken cold," said Jacks, with graceful solicitude.
"No, no! It's nothing."
Dusk crept about the room. The fire was getting rather low.
"Shall I ring for lamps?" asked Arnold, half rising.
Irene wished to say no, but the proprieties were too strong. She allowed him to ring the bell, and, without asking leave, he threw coals upon the fire. For five minutes their dialogue suffered interruption; when it began again, the curtains were drawn, and warm rays succeeded to turbid twilight.
"I had better explain to you," said Arnold, in a tone of delicacy overcome, "this state of mind in which you find yourself. It is perfectly natural; one has heard of it; one sees the causes of it. You are about to take the most important step in your whole life, and, being what you are, a very intelligent and very conscientious girl, you have thought and thought about its gravity until it frightens you. That's the simple explanation of your trouble. In a week--perhaps in a day or two--it will have passed. Just wait. Don't think of it. Put your marriage--put me--quite out of your mind. I won't remind you of my existence for--let us say before next Sunday. Now, is it agreed?"
"I should be dishonest if I pretended to agree."
"But--don't you think you owe it to me to give what I suggest a fair trial?"
The words were trenchant, the tone was studiously soft. Irene strung herself for contest, hoping it would come quickly and undisguised.
"I owe you much. I have done you a great injustice. But waiting will do no good. I know my mind at last. I see what is possible and what impossible."
"Do you imagine, Irene, that I can part with you on these terms? Do you really think I could shake hands, and say good-bye, at this stage of our relations?"
"What can I do?" Her voice, kept low, shook with emotion. "I confess an error--am I to pay for it with my life?"
"I ask you only to be just to yourself as well as to me. Let three days go by, and see me again."
She seemed to reflect upon it. In truth she was debating whether to persevere in honesty, or to spare her nerves with dissimulation. A promise to wait three days would set her free forthwith; the temptation was great. But something in her had more constraining power.
"If I pretended to agree, I should be ashamed of myself. I should have passed from error into baseness. You would have a right to despise me; as it is, you have only a right to be angry."
As though the word acted upon his mood, Arnold sprang forward from the chair, fell upon one knee close beside her, and grasped her hands. Irene instinctively threw herself back, looking frightened; but she did not attempt to rise. His face was hot-coloured, his eyes shone unpleasantly; but before he spoke, his lips parted in a laugh.
"Are you one of the women," he said, "who have to be conquered? I didn't think so. You seemed so reasonable."
"Do you dream of conquering a woman who cannot love you?"
"I refuse to believe it. I recall your own words."
He made a movement to pass one arm about her waist.
"No! After what I have said----!"
Her hands being free, she sprang up and broke away from him. Arnold rose more slowly, his look lowered with indignation. Eyes bent on the ground, hands behind him, he stood mute.
"Must I leave you?" said Irene, when she could steady her voice.
"That is my dismissal?"
"If you cannot listen to me, and believe me--yes."
"All things considered, you are a little severe."
"You put yourself in the wrong. However unjust I have been to you, I can't atone by permitting what you call conquest. No, I assure you, I am _not_ one of those women."
His eyes were now fixed upon her; his lips announced a new determination, set as they were in the lines of resentful dignity.
"Let me put the state of things before you," he said in his softest tones, just touched with irony. "The fact of our engagement has been published. Our marriage is looked for by a host of friends and acquaintances, and even by the mere readers of the newspapers. All but at the last moment, on a caprice, an impulse you do not pretend to justify to one's intelligence, you declare it is all at an end. Pray, how do you propose to satisfy natural curiosity about such a strange event?"
"I take all the blame. I make it known that I have behaved--unreasonably; if you will disgracefully."
"That word," replied Jacks, faintly smiling, "has a meaning in this connection which you would hardly care to reflect upon. Take it that you have said this to your friends: what do _I_ say to _mine_?"
Irene could not answer.
"I have a pleasant choice," he pursued. "I can keep silence--which would mean scandal, affecting both of us, according to people's disposition. Or I can say with simple pathos, 'Miss Derwent begged me to release her.' Neither alternative is agreeable to me. It may be unchivalrous. Possibly another man would beg to be allowed to sacrifice his reputation, to ensure your quiet release. To be frank with you, I value my reputation, I value my chances in life. I have no mind to make myself appear worse than I am."
Irene had sunk into her chair again. As he talked, Jacks moved to a sofa near her, and dropped on to the end of it.
"Surely there is a way," began the girl's voice, profoundly troubled. "We could let it be known, first of all, that the marriage was postponed. Then--there would be less talk afterwards."
He leaned towards her, upon his elbow.
"It interests me--your quiet assumption that my feelings count for nothing."
Irene reddened. She was conscious of having ignored that aspect of the matter, and dreaded to have to speak of it. For the revelation made to her of late taught her that, whatever Arnold Jacks' idea of love might be, it was not hers. Yet perhaps in his way, he loved her--the way which had found expression a few minutes ago.
"I can only repeat that I am ashamed."
"If you would grant me some explanation," Jacks resumed, with his most positive air, that of the born man of business. "Don't be afraid of hurting my sensibilities. Have I committed myself in any way?"
"It is a change in myself--I was too hasty--I reflected afterwards instead of before----"
"Forgive
