"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.