Habit and association dropped away; things
declared themselves in their actuality; her mind whirled under the
sense of human folly, helplessness, endurance.
"Irene----"
A cry escaped her; she started at the sound of her name as if
terrified. Arnold Jacks had entered the room, and drawn near to her,
whilst she was deep in reverie.
"I am sorry to have alarmed you," he added, smiling tolerantly.
With embarrassment which was almost shame--for she despised
womanish nervousness--Irene turned towards the fireplace, where
chairs invited them.
"Let us sit down and talk," she said, in a softened voice. "I am so
grateful to you for coming at once."
CHAPTER XXVII
His manner was that to which she had grown accustomed, or differed
so little from it that, in ordinary circumstances, she would have
remarked no peculiarity. He might have seemed, perhaps, a trifle
less matter-of-fact than usual, slightly more disposed to ironic
playfulness. At ease in the soft chair, his legs extended, with feet
crossed, he observed Irene from under humorously bent brows; watched
her steadily, until he saw that she could bear it no longer. Then he
spoke.
"I thought we should get through without it."
"Without what?"
"This little reaction. It comes into the ordinary prognosis, I
believe; but we seemed safe. Yet I can't say I'm sorry. It's better
no doubt, to get this over before marriage.
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