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?"
Irene bent her head again, for her cheeks were warm. In a flash of intellect, she wondered that a man so deep in the science of life should be so at a loss before elementary facts of emotional experience. She could only answer by saying nothing.