Her hands being free, she sprang up and broke away from him. Arnold rose more slowly, his look lowered with indignation. Eyes bent on the ground, hands behind him, he stood mute. "Must I leave you?" said Irene, when she could steady 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 his way, he loved her--the way which had found expression a few minutes ago. "I can only repeat that I am ashamed." "If you would grant me some explanation," Jacks resumed, with his most positive air, that of the born man of business. "Don't be afraid of hurting my sensibilities. Have I committed myself in any way?"