“I shall never pardon you, because I shall never feel you have injured me.  Say to me what you want to say.  I will listen.  What can I do better than listen to your voice?  I won’t argue; I won’t contradict.  Relieve your mind, and let us see what it all comes to in the end.”

Irene had a creeping sense of fear.  This tone was so unlike what she had expected.  Physical weakness threatened a defeat which would have nothing to do with her will.  If she yielded now, there would be no recovering her self-respect, no renewal of her struggle for liberty.  She wished to rise, to face him upon her feet, yet had not the courage.  His manner dictated hers.  They were not playing parts on a stage, but civilised persons discussing their difficulties in a soft-carpeted drawing-room.  The only thing in her favour was that the afternoon drew on, and the light thickened.  Veiled in dusk, she hoped to speak more resolutely.

“Must I repeat my letter?”

“Yes, if you feel sure that it still expresses your mind.”

“It does.  I made a grave mistake.  In accepting your offer of marriage, I was of course honest, but I didn’t know what it meant; I didn’t understand myself.  Of course it’s very hard on you that your serious purpose should have for its only result to teach me that 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 marringe—­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?”