Nor did Irene speak; she could
have uttered only a civil commonplace, and the tragic pallor of his
countenance in that moment kept her mute. He touched her hand and
was gone.
When the house door had closed behind him, the eyes of the two women
met. Standing as before, they conversed with low voices, with
troubled brows. Mrs. Hannaford rapidly explained her part in what
had happened.
"You will forgive me, Irene? I see now that I ought to have told you
about it yesterday."
"Better as it was, perhaps, so far as I am concerned. But he--I'm
sorry----"
"He behaved well, don't you think?"
"Yes," replied Irene thoughtfully, slowly, "he behaved well."
They moved apart, and Irene laid her hand on a book, but did not sit
down.
"How old is he?" she asked of a sudden.
"Six-and-twenty."
"One would take him for more. But of course his ways of thinking
show how young he is." She fluttered the pages of her book, and
smiled. "It will be interesting to see him in another five years."
That was all. Neither mentioned Otway's name again during the two
more days they spent together.
But Irene's mind was busy with the contrast between him and Arnold
Jacks. She pursued this track of thought whithersoever it led her,
believing it a wholesome exercise in her present mood. Her choice
was made, and irrevocable; reason bade her justify it by every means
that offered.
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