“Oh, it’s all right.  People countenance her who wouldn’t do so if there were anything really amiss.”

“Well, Dr. Derwent,” said the young man in a conclusive tone, “evidently all is at an end.  It remains for us to agree upon the manner of making it known.  Should the announcement come from your side or from mine?”

The Doctor reflected.

“You no longer propose to wait the effect of a little time?”

“Emphatically, no.  This step of Miss Derwent’s puts that out of the question.”

“I see—­Perhaps you feel that, in justice to yourself, it should be made known that she has done something of which you disapprove?”

Arnold missed the quiet irony of this question.

“Not at all.  Our engagement ended yesterday; with to-day’s events I have nothing to do.”

“That is the generous view,” said Dr. Derwent, smiling pleasantly.  “Do you know, I fancy we had better each of us tell the story in his own way.  It will come to that in the end, won’t it?  You had a disagreement; you thought better of your proposed union; what more simple?  I see no room for scandal.”

“Be it so.  Have the kindness to acquaint Miss Derwent with what has passed between us.”

After dinner that evening, Dr. Derwent related the matter to his son.  Eustace was astounded, and presently indignant.  It seemed to him inconceivable that Arnold Jacks should have suffered this affront.  He would not look at things from his sister’s point of view; absurd to attempt a defence of her; really, really, she had put them all into a most painful position!  An engagement was an engagement, save in the event of grave culpability on either side.  Eustace spoke as a lawyer; his professional instincts were outraged.  He should certainly call upon the Jacks’ and utterly dissociate himself from his sister in this lamentable affair.

“Why, what a shock it will be to Mrs. Jacks!”

“She’ll get over it, I fancy,” remarked the Doctor drily.

The young barrister withdrew to his room, where he read hard until very late.  Eustace was no trifler; he had brains, and saw his way to make use of them to the one end which addressed his imagination, that of social self-advancement.  His studies to-night were troubled with a resentful fear lest Irene’s “unwomanly” behaviour (a generation ago it would have been “unladylike”) should bring the family name into some discredit.  Little ejaculations escaped him, such as “Really!” and “Upon my word!” Eustace had never been known to use stronger language.

When his son had retired, Dr. Derwent stepped up to the drawing-room, where Olga Hannaford was sitting.  After kindly regretting that she should be alone, he repeated to his niece what he had just told Eustace.  Doubtless she would here very soon from Irene.

“I have already heard something about this,” said Olga.  “I’m sure she has done right, but no one will ever know what it cost her.”