sirable place of abode? Nay, how was it for a moment tolerable to
reasoning men and women? This whole London now gasping in foul vapours
that half obscured, half emphasised its inexpressible monstrosity, its
inconceivable abominations--by what blighting of eye and soul did a
nation come to accept it as their world-shown pride, their supreme
City? She was lost in a truth-perceiving dream. Habit and association
dropped away; things declared themselves in their actuality; her mind
whirled under the sense of human folly, helplessness, endurance.

"Irene----"

A cry escaped her; she started at the sound of her name as if
terrified. Arnold Jacks had entered the room, and drawn near to her,
whilst she was deep in reverie.

"I am sorry to have alarmed you," he added, smiling tolerantly.

With embarrassment which was almost shame--for she despised womanish
nervousness--Irene turned towards the fireplace, where chairs invited
them.

"Let us sit down and talk," she said, in a softened voice. "I am so
grateful to you for coming at once."

CHAPTER XXVII

His manner was that to which she had grown accustomed, or differed so
little from it that, in ordinary circumstances, she would have remarked
no peculiarity. He might have seemed, perhaps, a trifle less
matter-of-fact than usual, slightly more disposed to ironic
playfulness. At ease in the soft chair, his legs extended, with feet
crossed, he observed Irene from under humorously bent brows; watched
her steadily, until he saw that she could bear it no longer. Then he
spoke.

"I thought we should get through without it."

"Without what?"

"This little reaction. It comes into the ordinary prognosis, I believe;
but we seemed safe. Yet I can't say I'm sorry. It's better no doubt, to
get this over before marriage."

Irene flushed, and for a moment strung herself to the attitude of
offended pride. But it passed. She smiled to his smile, and, playing
with the tassel of her chair, responded in a serious undertone.

"I hoped my letter could not possibly be misunderstood."

"I understand it perfectly. I am here to talk it over from your own
standpoint."

Again he frowned jocosely. His elbows on the chair-arms, he tapped
together the points of his fingers, exhibiting nails which were all
that they should have been. Out of regard for the Derwents' mourning,
he wore a tie of black satin, and his clothes were of dark-grey, a
rough material which combined the effects of fini