But Irene’s mind was busy with the contrast between him and Arnold Jacks.  She pursued this track of thought whithersoever it led her, believing it a wholesome exercise in her present mood.  Her choice was made, and irrevocable; reason bade her justify it by every means that offered.  And she persuaded herself that nothing better could have happened, at such a juncture, than this suggestion of an alternative so widely different.

An interesting boy—­six-and-twenty is still a boyish age—­with all sorts of vague idealisms; nothing ripe; nothing that convinced; a dreary cosmopolite, little likely to achieve results in any direction.  On the other hand, a mature and vigorous man, English to the core, stable in his tested views of life, already an active participant in the affairs of the nation and certain to move victoriously onward; a sure patriot, a sturdy politician.  It was humiliating to Piers Otway.  Indeed, unfair!

On Monday, when she returned from her visit to Stratford, a telegram awaited her.  “Thank you, letter tomorrow, Arnold.”  That pleased her; the British laconicism; the sensible simplicity of the thing!  And when the letter arrived (two pages and a half) it seemed a suitable reply to hers of Saturday, in which she had used only everyday words and phrases.  No gushing in Arnold Jacks!  He was “happy,” he was “grateful”; what more need an honest man say to the woman who has accepted him?  She was his “Dearest Irene”; and what more could she ask to be?

A curious thing happened that evening.  Mrs. Hannaford and her niece, both tired after the day’s excursion, and having already talked over its abundant interests, sat reading, or pretending to read.  Suddenly, Irene threw her book aside, with a movement of impatience, and stood up.

“Don’t you find it very close?” she said, almost irritably.  “I shall go upstairs.  Good-night!”

Her aunt gazed at her in surprise.

“You are tired, my dear.”

“I suppose I am—­Aunt, there is something I should like to say, if you will let me.  You are very kind and good, but that makes you, sometimes, a little indiscreet.  Promise me, please, never to make me the subject of conversation with anyone to whom you cannot speak of me quite openly, before all the world.”

Mrs. Hannaford was overcome with astonishment, with distress.  She tried to reply, but before she could shape a word Irene had swept from the room.

When they met again at breakfast, the girl stepped up to her aunt and kissed her on both cheeks—­an unusual greeting.  She was her bright self again; talked merrily; read aloud a letter from her father, which proved that at the time of writing he had not seen Arnold Jacks.

“I must write to the Doctor to-morrow,” she said, with an air of reflection.

At ten o’clock they drove to the station.  While Miss Derwent took her ticket Mrs. Hannaford walked on the platform.  On issuing from the booking-office, Irene saw her aunt in conversation with a man, who, in the same moment, turned abruptly and walked away.  Neither she nor her aunt spoke of this incident, but Irene noticed that the other was a little flushed.