He had never seen himself in such a
situation it was as though a British admiral on his ironclad found
himself mocked by some elusive little gunboat, newly invented by the
condemned foreigner. His intellect refused to acknowledge the
possibility of discomfiture; his soul raged mightily against the
hint of bafflement. Humour would not come to his aid; the lighter
elements of race were ousted; he was solid insolence, wooden-headed
self-will.
Irene had risen.
"I am not feeling quite myself. I have said all there is to be said,
and I must beg you to excuse me."
"You should have begun by saying that. It is what I insisted upon."
"Shall we shake hands, Mr. Jacks?"
"To be sure!"
"It is good-bye. You understand me? If, after this, you imagine an
engagement between us, you have only yourself to blame."
"I take the responsibility." He released her hand, and made a stiff
bow. "In three days, I shall call."
You will not see me."
"Perhaps not. Then, three days later. Nothing whatever is changed
between us. A little discussion of this sort is all to the good.
Plainly, you have thought me a much weaker man than I am: when that
error of judgment is removed, our relations will be better than
ever."
The temptation to say one word more overcame Irene's finer sense of
the becoming. Jacks had already taken his hat, and was again bowing,
when she spoke.
"You are so sure that your will is stronger than mine?"
"Perfectly sure," he replied, with superb tranquillity.
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