And she persuaded herself that nothing better could
have happened, at such a juncture, than this suggestion of an
alternative so widely different.
An interesting boy--six-and-twenty is still a boyish age--with
all sorts of vague idealisms; nothing ripe; nothing that convinced;
a dreary cosmopolite, little likely to achieve results in any
direction. On the other hand, a mature and vigorous man, English to
the core, stable in his tested views of life, already an active
participant in the affairs of the nation and certain to move
victoriously onward; a sure patriot, a sturdy politician. It was
humiliating to Piers Otway. Indeed, unfair!
On Monday, when she returned from her visit to Stratford, a telegram
awaited her. "Thank you, letter tomorrow, Arnold." That pleased her;
the British laconicism; the sensible simplicity of the thing! And
when the letter arrived (two pages and a half) it seemed a suitable
reply to hers of Saturday, in which she had used only everyday words
and phrases. No gushing in Arnold Jacks! He was "happy," he was
"grateful"; what more need an honest man say to the woman who has
accepted him? She was his "Dearest Irene"; and what more could she
ask to be?
A curious thing happened that evening. Mrs. Hannaford and her niece,
both tired after the day's excursion, and having already talked over
its abundant interests, sat reading, or pretending to read.
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