"Father I am not acting cruelly. It is the best thing I can do, for him as well as for myself. On his side, no deep feeling is involved, and as for his vanity--I can't consider that." "You have come to the conclusion that he is not sufficiently devoted to you?" "I couldn't have put it in those words, but that is half the truth. The other half is, that I was altogether mistaken in my own feelings--Father, you are accustomed to deal with life and death. Do you think that fear of gossip, and desire to spare Mr. Jacks a brief mortification, should compel me to surrender all that makes life worth living, and to commit a sin for which there is no forgiveness?" Her voice, thoroughly under control, its natural music subdued rather than emphasised, lent to these words a deeper meaning than they would have conveyed if uttered with vehemence. They woke in her father's mind a memory of long years ago, recalled the sound of another voice which had the same modulations. "I find no fault with you," he said gravely. "That you can do such a thing as this proves to me how strongly you feel about it. But it is a serious decision--more serious, perhaps, than you realise. Things have gone so far. The mere inconvenience caused will be very great." "I know it. I have felt tempted to yield to that thought--to let things slide, as they say. Convenience, I feel sure, is a greater power on the whole than religion or morals or the heart. It doesn't weigh with me, because I have had such a revelation of myself as blinds me to everything else. I _dare_ not go on!" "Don't think I claim any authority over you," said the Doctor. "At your age, my only right as your father is in my affection, my desire for your welfare, Can you tell me more plainly how this change has come about?" Irene reflected. She had seated herself, and felt more confidence now that, by bending her head, she could escape her father's gaze. "I can tell you one of the things that brought me to a resolve," she said. "I found that Mr. Jacks was disturbed by the fear of a public scandal which would touch our name; so much disturbed that, on meeting me after aunt's death, he could hardly conceal his gladness that she was out of the way." "Are you sure you read him aright?" "Very sure." "It was natural--in Arnold Jacks." "It was. I had not understood that before." "His relief may have been as much on your account as his own." "I can't feel that," replied Irene. "If it were true, he could have made me feel it. There would have been something--if only a word--in the letter he wrote me about the death. I didn't expect him to talk to me about the hateful things that were going on; I _did_ hope that he would give me some assurance of his indifference to their effect on people's minds. Yet no; that is not quite true. Even then, I had got past hoping it. Already I understood him too well." "Strange! All this new light came after your engagement?"