her voice.

"That is my dismissal?"

"If you cannot listen to me, and believe me--yes."

"All things considered, you are a little severe."

"You put yourself in the wrong. However unjust I have been to you, I
can't atone by permitting what you call conquest. No, I assure you, I
am _not_ one of those women."

His eyes were now fixed upon her; his lips announced a new
determination, set as they were in the lines of resentful dignity.

"Let me put the state of things before you," he said in his softest
tones, just touched with irony. "The fact of our engagement has been
published. Our marriage is looked for by a host of friends and
acquaintances, and even by the mere readers of the newspapers. All but
at the last moment, on a caprice, an impulse you do not pretend to
justify to one's intelligence, you declare it is all at an end. Pray,
how do you propose to satisfy natural curiosity about such a strange
event?"

"I take all the blame. I make it known that I have
behaved--unreasonably; if you will disgracefully."

"That word," replied Jacks, faintly smiling, "has a meaning in this
connection which you would hardly care to reflect upon. Take it that
you have said this to your friends: what do _I_ say to _mine_?"

Irene could not answer.

"I have a pleasant choice," he pursued. "I can keep silence--which
would mean scandal, affecting both of us, according to people's
disposition. Or I can say with simple pathos, 'Miss Derwent begged me
to release her.' Neither alternative is agreeable to me. It may be
unchivalrous. Possibly another man would beg to be allowed to sacrifice
his reputation, to ensure your quiet release. To be frank with you, I
value my reputation, I value my chances in life. I have no mind to make
myself appear worse than I am."

Irene had sunk into her chair again. As he talked, Jacks moved to a
sofa near her, and dropped on to the end of it.

"Surely there is a way," began the girl's voice, profoundly troubled.
"We could let it be known, first of all, that the marriage was
postponed. Then--there would be less talk afterwards."

He leaned towards her, upon his elbow.

"It interests me--your quiet assumption that my feelings count for
nothing."

Irene reddened. She was conscious of having ignored that aspect of the
matter, and dreaded to have to speak of it. For the revelation made to
her of late taught her that, whatever Arnold Jacks' idea of love might
be, it was not hers. Yet perhaps in h