"I am not quite sure, Mr. Jacks, that I think about it in the same
way."
Her voice was subdued to a very pleasant note, but it did not
tremble.
"I can allow for that uncertainty--though I have nothing of it
myself. We shall both be in London for a month or so. Let me see you
as often as I can, and, before you leave town, let me ask whether
the doubt has been overcome."
"I hold myself free," said Irene impulsively.
"Naturally."
"I do you no wrong if it seems to me impossible."
"None whatever."
His eyes were fixed on her face, dimly beautiful in the fading
shimmer from sea and sky. Irene met his glance for an instant, and
moved away, he following.
Arnold Jacks had never known a mood so jubilant. He was saved from
the terror of humiliation. He had comported himself as behoved him,
and the result was sure and certain hope. He felt almost grateful,
almost tender, towards the woman of his choice.
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.
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