"
Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the attitude of
offended pride. But it passed. She smiled to his smile, and, playing
with the tassel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone.
"I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood."
"I understand it perfectly. I am here to talk it over from your own
standpoint."
Again he frowned jocosely. His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped
together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all
that they should have been. Out of regard for the Derwents'
mourning, he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of
dark-grey, a rough material which combined the effects of finish and
of carelessness--note of the well-dressed Englishman.
"We cannot talk it over," rejoined Irene. "I have nothing to say--
except that I take blame and shame to myself, and that I entreat
your forgiveness."
Under his steady eye, his good-humoured, watchful mastery, she was
growing restive.
"I was in doubt whether to come to-day," said Jacks, in a reflective
tone. "I thought at first of sending a note, and postponing our
meeting. I understood so perfectly the state of mind in which you
wrote--the natural result of most painful events. The fact is, I
am guilty of bad taste in seeming to treat it lightly; you have
suffered very much, and won't be yourself for some days. But, after
all, it isn't as if one had to do with the ordinary girl.
Pages:
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341
342
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353