A letter from Arnold announced his coming.  A day after, he arrived.

Many times as she had enacted in fancy the scene of their meeting, Irene found in the reality something quite unlike her anticipation.  Arnold, it was true, behaved much as she expected; he was perfect in well-bred homage; he said the right things in the right tone; his face declared a sincere emotion, yet he restrained himself within due limits of respect.  The result in Irene’s mind was disappointment and fear.

He gave her too little; he seemed to ask too much.

The first interview—­in a private sitting-room at the hotel where they were all staying—­lasted about half an hour; it wrought a change in Irene for which she had not at all prepared herself, though the doubts and misgivings which had of late beset her pointed darkly to such a revulsion of feeling.  She had not understood; she could not understand, until enlightened by the very experience.  Alone once more, she sat down all tremulous; pallid as if she had suffered a shock of fright.  An indescribable sense of immodesty troubled her nerves:  she seemed to have lost all self-respect:  the thought of going forth again, of facing her father and brother, was scarcely to be borne.  This acute distress presently gave way to a dull pain, a sinking at the heart.  She felt miserably alone.  She longed for a friend of her own sex, not necessarily to speak of what she was going through, but for the moral support of a safe companionship.  Never had she known such a feeling of isolation, and of over-great responsibility.

A few tears relieved her.  Irene was not prone to weeping; only a great crisis of her fate would have brought her to this extremity.

It was over in a quarter of an hour—­or seemed so.  She had recovered command of her nerves, had subdued the excess of emotion.  As for what had happened, that was driven into the background of her mind, to await examination at leisure.  She was a new being, but for the present could bear herself in the old way.  Before leaving her room, she stood before the looking-glass, and smiled.  Oh yes, it would do!

Arnold Jacks was in the state of mind which exhibited him at his very best.  An air of discreet triumph sat well on this elegant Englishman; it prompted him to continuous discourse, which did not lack its touch of brilliancy; his features had an uncommon animation, and his slender, well-knit figure—­of course clad with perfect seaside propriety—­appeared to gain an inch, so gallantly he held himself.  He walked the cliffs like one on guard over his country.  Without for a moment becoming ridiculous, Arnold, with his first-rate English breeding, could carry off a great deal of radiant self-consciousness.

Side by side, he and Irene looked very well; there was suitability of stature, harmony of years.  Arnold’s clean-cut visage, manly yet refined, did no discredit to the choice of a girl even so striking in countenance as Irene.  They drew the eyes of passers-by.  Conscious of this, Irene now and then flinched imperceptibly; but her smile held good, and its happiness flattered the happy man.