“Are you afraid of responsibilities?  In this case, you must really face it.  Screw up your courage.”

Decidedly, Arnold was not himself.  He liked an engagement of banter; it amused him to call out Irene’s spirit, and to conquer in the end by masculine force in guise of affectionate tolerance.  To-day he seemed dull, matter-of-fact, inclined to vexation; when not speaking, he had a slightly absent air, as if ruminating an unpleasant thought.

“Of course I will do as you wish, Irene.  Just let me describe the house——­”

She could have screamed with irritation.

“Arnold, I entreat you!  The house is nothing to me.  I mean, one will do as well as another, if you are satisfied.”

“So be it.  I will never touch on the subject again.”

His tone was decisive.  Irene knew that he would literally keep his word.  This was the side of his character which she liked, which had always impressed her; and for the moment her nerves were soothed.

“You will forgive me?” she said gently.

“Forgive you for having a headache?—­Will it prevent you from coming to us this evening?”

“I should be grateful if you let me choose another day.”

He did not stay very long.  At leave-taking, he raised her hand to his lips, and Irene felt that he did it gracefully.  But when she was alone again, his manner, so slightly yet so noticeably changed, became the harassing subject of her thought.  That the change resulted from annoyance at the scandal in her family she could not doubt; such a thing would be hard for Arnold to bear.  When were they to speak of it?  Speak they must, if the affair went on to publicity.  And, considering the natural difficulty Arnold would find in approaching such a subject, ought not she to take some steps of her own initiative?

By evening, she saw the position in a very serious light.  She asked herself whether it did not behove her to offer to make an end of their engagement.

“Your aunt has brain fever,” said Dr. Derwent, in the library after dinner.  And Irene shuddered with dread.

Early next morning she accompanied her father to Mrs. Hannaford’s.  The Doctor went upstairs; Irene waited in the dining-room, where she was soon joined by Olga.  The girl’s face was news sufficient; her mother grew worse—­had passed a night of delirium.  Two nurses were in the house, and the medical man called every few hours.  Olga herself looked on the point of collapse; she was haggard with fear; she trembled and wept.  In spite of her deep concern and sympathy, Irene’s more courageous temper reproved this weakness, wondered at it as unworthy of a grown woman.

“Did Mr. Otway come?” she asked, as soon as It was possible to converse.

“Yes.  He was a long time in mother’s room, and just before he left her your father came.”

“They met?”

“No.  Uncle seemed angry when I told him.  He said, ’Get rid of him at once!’ I suppose he dislikes him because of his brother.  It’s very unjust.”