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."
"I had imagined it pretty well," replied Irene.
"Yes, one does."
Under common circumstances, Arnold would have scornfully denied the
possibility of such imagination.
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