of an hour--or seemed so. She had recovered
command of her nerves, had subdued the excess of emotion. As for what
had happened, that was driven into the background of her mind, to await
examination at leisure. She was a new being, but for the present could
bear herself in the old way. Before leaving her room, she stood before
the looking-glass, and smiled. Oh yes, it would do!

Arnold Jacks was in the state of mind which exhibited him at his very
best. An air of discreet triumph sat well on this elegant Englishman;
it prompted him to continuous discourse, which did not lack its touch
of brilliancy; his features had an uncommon animation, and his slender,
well-knit figure--of course clad with perfect seaside
propriety--appeared to gain an inch, so gallantly he held himself. He
walked the cliffs like one on guard over his country. Without for a
moment becoming ridiculous, Arnold, with his first-rate English
breeding, could carry off a great deal of radiant self-consciousness.

Side by side, he and Irene looked very well; there was suitability of
stature, harmony of years. Arnold's clean-cut visage, manly yet
refined, did no discredit to the choice of a girl even so striking in
countenance as Irene. They drew the eyes of passers-by. Conscious of
this, Irene now and then flinched imperceptibly; but her smile held
good, and its happiness flattered the happy man.

Eustace Derwent departed in a day or two, having an invitation to join
friends in Scotland. He had vastly enjoyed the privilege of listening
to Arnold's talk. Indeed to his sister's amusement, he plainly sought
to model himself on Mr. Jacks, in demeanour, in phraseology, and in
sentiments; not without success.

CHAPTER XXIV

On one of those evenings at the seaside, Dr. Derwent, glancing over the
newspapers, came upon a letter signed "Lee Hannaford." It had reference
to some current dispute about the merits of a new bullet. Hannaford,
writing with authority, criticised the invention; he gave particulars
(the result of an experiment on an old horse) as to its mode of
penetrating flesh and shattering bone; there was a gusto in his style,
that of the true artist in bloodshed. Pointing out the signature to
Arnold Jacks, Dr. Derwent asked in a subdued tone, as when one speaks
of something shameful:

"Have you seen or heard of him lately?"

"About ten days ago," replied Arnold. "He was at the Hyde Wilson's, and
he had the impertinence to congratulate me. He d