The change began when he observed the impression made by her upon Trafford Romaine.  This was startling.  Romaine, the administrator of world-wide repute, the man who had but to choose among Great Britain’s brilliant daughters (or so his worshippers believed), no sooner looked upon Irene Derwent than he betrayed his subjugation.  No woman had ever received such honour from him, such homage public and private.  Arnold Jacks was pricked with uneasiness; Irene had at once a new value in his eyes, and he feared he had foolishly neglected his opportunities.  If she married Romaine, it would be mortifying.  She refused the great man’s offer, and Arnold was at first astonished, then gratified.  For such refusal there could be only one ground:  Miss Derwent’s “heart” was already disposed of.  Women have “hearts”; they really do grow fond of the men they admire; a singular provision of nature.

He would propose during the voyage.

But the voyage was nearly over; he might have put his formal little question fifty times; it was still to be asked—­and he felt afraid.  Afraid more than ever, now that he had committed himself with Dr. Derwent.  The Doctor had received his confession so calmly, whereas Arnold hoped for some degree of effusiveness.  Was he—­ hideous doubt—­preparing himself for an even worse disillusion?

Undoubtedly the people on board had remarked his attentions; for all he knew, jokes were being passed, nay, bets being made.  It was a serious thing to proclaim oneself the wooer of a young lady who had refused Trafford Romaine; who was known to have done so, and talked about with envy, admiration, curiosity.  You either carried her off, or you made yourself fatally. ridiculous.  Half a dozen of the passengers would spread this gossip far and wide through England.  There was that problematic Mrs. Borisoff, a frisky grass widow, who seemed to know crowds of distinguished people, and who was watching him day by day with her confounded smile!  Who could say what passed between her and Irene, intimates as they had become?  Did they make fun of him?  Did they dare to?

Arnold Jacks differed widely from the common type of fatuous young man.  He was himself a merciless critic of fatuity; he had a faculty of shrewd observation, plenty of caustic common sense.  Yet the position into which he had drifted threatened him with ridiculous extremes of self-consciousness.  Even in his personal carriage, he was not quite safe against ridicule; and he felt it.  This must come to an end.

He sought his moment, and found it at the hour of dusk.  The sun had gone down gloriously upon a calm sea; the sky was overspread with clouds still flushed, and the pleasant coolness of the air foretold to-morrow’s breeze on the English Channel.  With pretence of watching a steamer that had passed, Arnold drew Miss Derwent to a part of the deck where they would be alone.

“You will feel,” he said abruptly, “that you know England better now that you have seen something of the England beyond seas.”