Stacey sat down near her—but not too near—and considered her with a polite external gravity. Inwardly he was amused by the recollection of her advances, somewhat remorseful at having treated her so roughly, and just a little apprehensive.
“Wanted to see you, Mr. Carroll,” Irene began gruffly, “and this seemed a good place. Sorry to disturb you, though.”
But there was a faint tremor in her voice. Her affectation of mannishness made her appear only the more feminine, Stacey thought. In an odd way she was attractive.
“Not a bit of it! I’m glad to see you,” he replied, and waited.
Irene swallowed once or twice. “Well,” she said, trying again for a beginning, “I wanted to tell you something. I suppose you’ve got a rotten opinion of me. Haven’t you?” she demanded, staring at him, a sulky childish look about her mouth.
Stacey cordially disclaimed having anything of the sort.
“Well, you’d have a right to, I guess. Anyway, what I wanted to tell you was that I’ve come to my senses. You haven’t anything to fear from me any more.”
Stacey choked at this and kept his face straight with difficulty.
“And I’m engaged to be married to Paul Hemingway. Know him?”
“Fine!” said Stacey, laughing in spite of his best efforts. “Awfully good fellow! I think you’ve chosen well. I’ll send you a wedding present.” And he held out his hand.