e, dimly beautiful in the fading shimmer
from sea and sky. Irene met his glance for an instant, and moved away,
he following.

Arnold Jacks had never known a mood so jubilant. He was saved from the
terror of humiliation. He had comported himself as behoved him, and the
result was sure and certain hope. He felt almost grateful, almost
tender, towards the woman of his choice.

But Irene as she lay in her berth, strangely wakeful to the wash of the
sea as the breeze freshened, was frightened at the thought of what she
had done. Had she not, in the common way of maidenhood, as good as
accepted Arnold Jacks' proposal? She did not mean it so; she spoke
simply and directly in saying that she was not clear about her own
mind; on any other subject she would in fact, or in phrase, have
reserved her independence. But an offer of marriage was a thing apart,
full of subtle implications, needing to be dealt with according to
special rules of conscience and of tact. Some five or six she had
received, and in each case had replied decisively, her mind admitting
no doubt. As when to her astonishment, she heard the frank and large
confession of Trafford Romaine; the answer was an inevitable--No! To
Arnold Jacks she could not reply thus promptly. Relying on the easy
terms of their intercourse, she told him the truth; and now she saw
that no form of answer could be less discreet.

For about a year she had thought of Arnold as one who _might_ offer her
marriage; any girl in her position would have foreseen that
possibility. After every opportunity which he allowed to pass, she felt
relieved, for she had no reply in readiness. The thought of accepting
him was not at all disagreeable; it had even its allurements; but
between the speculation and the thing itself was a great gap for the
leaping of mind and heart. Her relations with him were very pleasant,
and she would have been glad if nothing had ever happened to disturb
them.

When her father suggested this long journey in Arnold's company, she
hesitated. In deciding to go, she said to herself that if nothing
resulted, well and good; if something did, well and good also. She
would get to know Arnold better, and on that increase of acquaintance
must depend the outcome, as far as she was concerned. She was helped in
making up her mind by a little thing that happened. There came to her
one day a letter from Odessa; on opening it, she found only a copy of
verses, with the signature "P.O." A