Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the attitude of offended pride.  But it passed.  She smiled to his smile, and, playing with the tassel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone.

“I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood.”

“I understand it perfectly.  I am here to talk it over from your own standpoint.”

Again he frowned jocosely.  His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all that they should have been.  Out of regard for the Derwents’ mourning, he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of dark-grey, a rough material which combined the effects of finish and of carelessness—­note of the well-dressed Englishman.

“We cannot talk it over,” rejoined Irene.  “I have nothing to say—­ except that I take blame and shame to myself, and that I entreat your forgiveness.”

Under his steady eye, his good-humoured, watchful mastery, she was growing restive.

“I was in doubt whether to come to-day,” said Jacks, in a reflective tone.  “I thought at first of sending a note, and postponing our meeting.  I understood so perfectly the state of mind in which you wrote—­the natural result of most painful events.  The fact is, I am guilty of bad taste in seeming to treat it lightly; you have suffered very much, and won’t be yourself for some days.  But, after all, it isn’t as if one had to do with the ordinary girl.  To speak frankly I thought it was the kindest thing to come—­so I came.”

Nothing Arnold had ever said to her had so appealed to Irene’s respect as this last sentence.  It had the ring of entire sincerity; it was quite simply spoken; it soothed her nerves.

“Thank you,” she answered with a grateful look.  “You did right.  I could not have borne it—­if you had just written and put it off.  Indeed, I could not have borne it.”

Arnold changed his attitude; he bent forward, his arms across his knees, so as to be nearer to her.

“Do you think I should have had an easy time?”

“I reproach myself more than I can tell you.  But you must understand —­you must believe that I mean what I am saying!” Her voice began to modulate.  “It is not only the troubles we have gone through.  I have seen it coming—­the moment when I should write that letter.  Through cowardice, I have put it off.  It was very unjust to you; you have every right to condemn my behaviour; I am unpardonable.  And yet I hope—­I do so hope—­that some day you will pardon me.”

In the man’s eyes she had never been so attractive, so desirable, so essentially a woman.  The mourning garb became her, for it was moulded upon her figure, and gave effect to the admirably pure tone of her complexion.  Her beauty, in losing its perfect healthfulness, gained a new power over the imagination; the heavy eyes suggested one knew not what ideal of painters and poets; the lips were more sensuous since they had lost their mocking smile.  All passion of which Arnold Jacks was capable sounded in the voice with which he now spoke.