To speak
frankly I thought it was the kindest thing to come--so I came."
Nothing Arnold had ever said to her had so appealed to Irene's
respect as this last sentence. It had the ring of entire sincerity;
it was quite simply spoken; it soothed her nerves.
"Thank you," she answered with a grateful look. "You did right. I
could not have borne it--if you had just written and put it off.
Indeed, I could not have borne it."
Arnold changed his attitude; he bent forward, his arms across his
knees, so as to be nearer to her.
"Do you think _I_ should have had an easy time?"
"I reproach myself more than I can tell you. But you must understand
--you _must_ believe that I mean what I am saying!" Her voice began
to modulate. "It is not only the troubles we have gone through. I
have seen it coming--the moment when I should write that letter.
Through cowardice, I have put it off. It was very unjust to you; you
have every right to condemn my behaviour; I am unpardonable. And yet
I hope--I do so hope--that some day you will pardon me."
In the man's eyes she had never been so attractive, so desirable, so
essentially a woman. The mourning garb became her, for it was
moulded upon her figure, and gave effect to the admirably pure tone
of her complexion. Her beauty, in losing its perfect healthfulness,
gained a new power over the imagination; the heavy eyes suggested
one knew not what ideal of painters and poets; the lips were more
sensuous since they had lost their mocking smile.
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