“I take all the blame.  I make it known that I have behaved—­ unreasonably; if you will disgracefully.”

“That word,” replied Jacks, faintly smiling, “has a meaning in this connection which you would hardly care to reflect upon.  Take it that you have said this to your friends:  what do I say to mine?”

Irene could not answer.

“I have a pleasant choice,” he pursued.  “I can keep silence—­which would mean scandal, affecting both of us, according to people’s disposition.  Or I can say with simple pathos, ’Miss Derwent begged me to release her.’  Neither alternative is agreeable to me.  It may be unchivalrous.  Possibly another man would beg to be allowed to sacrifice his reputation, to ensure your quiet release.  To be frank with you, I value my reputation, I value my chances in life.  I have no mind to make myself appear worse than I am.”

Irene had sunk into her chair again.  As he talked, Jacks moved to a sofa near her, and dropped on to the end of it.

“Surely there is a way,” began the girl’s voice, profoundly troubled.  “We could let it be known, first of all, that the marriage was postponed.  Then—­there would be less talk afterwards.”

He leaned towards her, upon his elbow.

“It interests me—­your quiet assumption that my feelings count for nothing.”

Irene reddened.  She was conscious of having ignored that aspect of the matter, and dreaded to have to speak of it.  For the revelation made to her of late taught her that, whatever Arnold Jacks’ idea of love might be, it was not hers.  Yet perhaps in his way, he loved her —­the way which had found expression a few minutes ago.

“I can only repeat that I am ashamed.”

“If you would grant me some explanation,” Jacks resumed, with his most positive air, that of the born man of business.  “Don’t be afraid of hurting my sensibilities.  Have I committed myself in any way?”

“It is a change in myself—­I was too hasty—­I reflected afterwards instead of before——­”

“Forgive me if I make the most of that admission.  Your hastiness was certainly not my fault.  I did not unduly press you; there was no importunity.  Such being the case, don’t you think I may suggest that you ought to bear the consequences?  I can’t—­I really can’t think them so dreadful.”

Irene kept silence, her face bent and averted.

“Many a girl has gone through what you feel now, but I doubt whether ever one before acted like this.  They kept their word; it was a point of honour.”

“I know; it is true.”  She forced herself to look at him.  “And the result was lives of misery—­dishonour—­tragedies.”

“Oh, come now——­”