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.
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