ways of thinking show
how young he is." She fluttered the pages of her book, and smiled. "It
will be interesting to see him in another five years."

That was all. Neither mentioned Otway's name again during the two more
days they spent together.

But Irene's mind was busy with the contrast between him and Arnold
Jacks. She pursued this track of thought whithersoever it led her,
believing it a wholesome exercise in her present mood. Her choice was
made, and irrevocable; reason bade her justify it by every means that
offered. And she persuaded herself that nothing better could have
happened, at such a juncture, than this suggestion of an alternative so
widely different.

An interesting boy--six-and-twenty is still a boyish age--with all
sorts of vague idealisms; nothing ripe; nothing that convinced; a
dreary cosmopolite, little likely to achieve results in any direction.
On the other hand, a mature and vigorous man, English to the core,
stable in his tested views of life, already an active participant in
the affairs of the nation and certain to move victoriously onward; a
sure patriot, a sturdy politician. It was humiliating to Piers Otway.
Indeed, unfair!

On Monday, when she returned from her visit to Stratford, a telegram
awaited her. "Thank you, letter tomorrow, Arnold." That pleased her;
the British laconicism; the sensible simplicity of the thing! And when
the letter arrived (two pages and a half) it seemed a suitable reply to
hers of Saturday, in which she had used only everyday words and
phrases. No gushing in Arnold Jacks! He was "happy," he was "grateful";
what more need an honest man say to the woman who has accepted him? She
was his "Dearest Irene"; and what more could she ask to be?

A curious thing happened that evening. Mrs. Hannaford and her niece,
both tired after the day's excursion, and having already talked over
its abundant interests, sat reading, or pretending to read. Suddenly,
Irene threw her book aside, with a movement of impatience, and stood up.

"Don't you find it very close?" she said, almost irritably. "I shall go
upstairs. Good-night!"

Her aunt gazed at her in surprise.

"You are tired, my dear."

"I suppose I am--Aunt, there is something I should like to say, if you
will let me. You are very kind and good, but that makes you, sometimes,
a little indiscreet. Promise me, please, never to make me the subject
of conversation with anyone to whom you cannot speak of me quite
openly,