"You have come to the conclusion that he is not sufficiently devoted to you?"
"I couldn't have put it in those words, but that is half the truth. The other half is, that I was altogether mistaken in my own feelings--Father, you are accustomed to deal with life and death. Do you think that fear of gossip, and desire to spare Mr. Jacks a brief mortification, should compel me to surrender all that makes life worth living, and to commit a sin for which there is no forgiveness?"
Her voice, thoroughly under control, its natural music subdued rather than emphasised, lent to these words a deeper meaning than they would have conveyed if uttered with vehemence. They woke in her father's mind a memory of long years ago, recalled the sound of another voice which had the same modulations.
"I find no fault with you," he said gravely. "That you can do such a thing as this proves to me how strongly you feel about it. But it is a serious decision--more serious, perhaps, than you realise. Things have gone so far. The mere inconvenience caused will be very great."
"I know it. I have felt tempted to yield to that thought--to let things slide, as they say. Convenience, I feel sure, is a greater power on the whole than religion or morals or the heart. It doesn't weigh with me, because I have had such a revelation of myself as blinds me to everything else. I _dare_ not go on!"
"Don't think I claim any authority over you," said the Doctor. "At your age, my only right as your father is in my affection, my desire for your welfare, Can you tell me more plainly how this change has come about?"
Irene reflected. She had seated herself, and felt more confidence now that, by bending her head, she could escape her father's gaze.
"I can tell you one of the things that brought me to a resolve," she said. "I found that Mr. Jacks was disturbed by the fear of a public scandal which would touch our name; so much disturbed that, on meeting me after aunt's death, he could hardly conceal his gladness that she was out of the way."
"Are you sure you read him aright?"
"Very sure."
"It was natural--in Arnold Jacks."
"It was. I had not understood that before."
"His relief may have been as much on your account as his own."
"I can't feel that," replied Irene. "If it were true, he could have made me feel it. There would have been something--if only a word--in the letter he wrote me about the death. I didn't expect him to talk to me about the hateful things that were going on; I _did_ hope that he would give me some assurance of his indifference to their effect on people's minds. Yet no; that is not quite true. Even then, I had got past hoping it. Already I understood him too well."
"Strange! All this new light came after your engagement?"
Irene bent her head again, for her cheeks were warm. In a flash of intellect, she wondered that a man so deep in the science of life should be so at a loss before elementary facts of emotional experience. She could only answer by saying nothing.
Dr. Derwent murmured his next words.
"I, too, have a share in the blame of all this."
"You, father?"
"I knew the man better than you did or could. I shirked a difficult duty. But one reason why I did so, was that I felt in doubt as to your mind. The fact that you were my daughter did not alter the fact that you were a woman, and I could not have any assurance that I understood you. If there had been a question of his life, his intellectual powers, his views--I would have said freely just what I thought. But there was no need; no objection rose on that score; you saw the man, from that point of view, much as I did--only with a little more sympathy. In other respects, I trusted to what we call women's instinct, women's perceptiveness. To me, he did not seem your natural mate; but then I saw with man's eyes; I was afraid of meddling obtusely."
"Don't reproach yourself, father. The knowledge I have gained could only have come to me in one way."
"Of course he will turn to me, in appeal against you."
"If so, it will be one more proof how rightly I am acting."
The Doctor smiled, all but laughed.
"Considering how very decent a fellow he is, your mood seems severe, Irene. Well, you have made up your mind. It's an affair of no small gravity, and we must get through it as best we can. I have no doubt whatever it's worse for you than for anyone else concerned."
"It is so bad for me, father, that, when I have gone through it, I shall be at the end of my strength. I shall run away from the after consequences."
"What do you mean?"
"I shall accept Mrs. Horisoff's invitation and go to Paris. It is deserting you, but----"
Dr. Derwent wore a doubtful look; he pondered, and began to pace the floor.
"We must think about that."
Though her own mind was quite made up, Irene did not see fit to say more at this juncture. She rose. Her father continued moving hither and thither, his hands behind his back, seemingly oblivious of her presence. To him, the trouble seemed only just beginning, and he was not at all sure what the end would be.
"Jacks will come this evening, I suppose?" he threw out, as Irene approached the door.
"Perhaps this afternoon."
He looked at her with sympathy, with apprehension. Irene endeavouring to smile in reply, passed from his view.
Olga had gone out, merely saying that she wished to see a friend, and that she might not be back to luncheon. She did not return. Father and daughter were alone together at the meal. Contrary to Irene's expectation, the Doctor had become almost cheerful; he made one or two quiet jokes in the old way, of course on any subject but that which filled their minds, and his behaviour was marked with an unusual gentleness. Irene was so moved by grateful feeling, that now and then she could not trust her voice.
"Let me remind you," he said, observing her lack of appetite, "that an ill-nourished brain can't be depended upon for sanity of argument."
"It aches a little," she replied quietly.
"I was afraid so. What if you rest to-day, and let me postpone for you that interview----?"
The suggestion was dreadful; she put it quickly aside. She hoped with all her strength that Arnold Jacks would have received the letter already, and that he would come to see her this afternoon. To pass another night with her suspense would be a strain scarce endurable.
Fog still hung about the streets, shifting, changing its density, but never allowing a glimpse of sky. Alone in the drawing-room Irene longed for the end of so-called day, that she might shut out that spirit-crushing blotch of bare trees and ugly houses. She thought of a sudden, how much harder we make life than it need be, by dwelling amid scenes that disgust, in air that lowers vitality. There fell on her a mood of marvelling at the aims and the satisfactions of mankind. This hideous oblong, known as Bryanston Square--how did it come to seem a desirable place of abode? Nay, how was it for a moment tolerable to reasoning men and women? This whole London now gasping in foul vapours that half obscured, half emphasised its inexpressible monstrosity, its inconceivable abominations--by what blighting of eye and soul did a nation come to accept it as their world-shown pride, their supreme City? She was lost in a truth-perceiving dream. Habit and association dropped away; things declared themselves in their actuality; her mind whirled under the sense of human folly, helplessness, endurance.
"Irene----"
A cry escaped her; she started at the