She smiled; did she intend to remind him that the day before he had neglected her summons? His conscience gave her smile that meaning, and he could not tell her that he had been obliged to play jailer to Mr. Fenning—for Mr. Fenning had not come! But her smile was not reproachful; it was still indulgent. She seemed to expect him to say such things, to know he would, to accept them as his sincere meaning at the time, but not to expect too much from them, not to take them quite literally, not to rely on them with the simple ample faith that the words of a solid trustworthy man receive. The love that has lived on admiration may live with indulgence; she seemed still to love him although now with opened eyes. And when he was gone, she turned back to the business of life with a sigh, to business and Bertie Jewett. Back she went to work, and in her work Ashley Mead had no longer a place.
At this time, among his conquests—and they were over himself as well as others—Bertie Jewett achieved a complete victory over Irene Kilnorton's old dislike of him. He was so helpful, so unobtrusive, so strong, so different from feather-headed people who were here one moment and elsewhere the next, whom you never knew where to have. She had what was nearly a quarrel with Bowdon because he observed that, when all was said and done, Bertie was not a gentleman.
"Nonsense, Frank," she said tartly. "He only wants to go into society a little more. In all essentials he's a perfect gentleman."
Bowdon shook his head in impenetrable, silent, male obstinacy. He was not apt at reasons or definitions, but he knew when he did and when he did not see a gentleman before him; he and his ancestors had spent generations in acquiring this luxury of knowledge. His shake of the head exasperated Irene.
"I like him very much," she said. "He has just the qualities that made me like you. One can depend on him; he's not harum-scarum and full of whims. You can trust yourself with men like that."
"I hope I'm not as dull as I sound, my dear," said Bowdon patiently.
"Dull! Who said you were dull? I said I could trust you, and I said I could trust Bertie Jewett. Oh, I don't mean to say he's fascinating like Ashley Mead. At least I suppose Ashley is fascinating to most people."
"Most women anyhow," murmured Bowdon.
"I consider," said Irene solemnly, "that Ora Pinsent has done him infinite harm."
"Poor Miss Pinsent!"