But Irene as she lay in her berth, strangely wakeful to the wash of the sea as the breeze freshened, was frightened at the thought of what she had done.  Had she not, in the common way of maidenhood, as good as accepted Arnold Jacks’ proposal?  She did not mean it so; she spoke simply and directly in saying that she was not clear about her own mind; on any other subject she would in fact, or in phrase, have reserved her independence.  But an offer of marriage was a thing apart, full of subtle implications, needing to be dealt with according to special rules of conscience and of tact.  Some five or six she had received, and in each case had replied decisively, her mind admitting no doubt.  As when to her astonishment, she heard the frank and large confession of Trafford Romaine; the answer was an inevitable—­No!  To Arnold Jacks she could not reply thus promptly.  Relying on the easy terms of their intercourse, she told him the truth; and now she saw that no form of answer could be less discreet.

For about a year she had thought of Arnold as one who might offer her marriage; any girl in her position would have foreseen that possibility.  After every opportunity which he allowed to pass, she felt relieved, for she had no reply in readiness.  The thought of accepting him was not at all disagreeable; it had even its allurements; but between the speculation and the thing itself was a great gap for the leaping of mind and heart.  Her relations with him were very pleasant, and she would have been glad if nothing had ever happened to disturb them.

When her father suggested this long journey in Arnold’s company, she hesitated.  In deciding to go, she said to herself that if nothing resulted, well and good; if something did, well and good also.  She would get to know Arnold better, and on that increase of acquaintance must depend the outcome, as far as she was concerned.  She was helped in making up her mind by a little thing that happened.  There came to her one day a letter from Odessa; on opening it, she found only a copy of verses, with the signature “P.O.”  A love poem; not addressed to her, but about her; a pretty poem, she thought, delicately felt and gracefully worded.  It surprised her, but only for a moment; thinking, she accepted it as something natural, and was touched by the tribute.  She put it carefully away —­knowing it by heart.

Impertinence!  Surely not.  Long ago she had reproached herself with her half-coquetry to Piers Otway, an error of exuberant spirits when she was still very young.  There was no obscuring the fact; deliberately she had set herself to draw him away from his studies; she had made it a point of pride to show herself irresistible.  Where others failed in their attack upon his austere seclusion, she would succeed, and easily.  She had succeeded only too well, and it never quite ceased to trouble her conscience.  Now, learning that even after four years her victim still remained loyal, she thought of him with much gentleness, and would have scorned herself had she felt scorn of his devotion.