"You were both silent and disagreeable," said Arnold, smiling. "Do you mind being disagreeable again, and telling me what your answer would have been?"
"Simply that I never, if I can help it, talk about weddings and rumours of weddings, and that I couldn't make an exception in your case."
Arnold laughed in the old way.
"A most original rule, Miss Derwent, and admirable. If all kept to it I shouldn't have been annoyed by that silly chatter. It occurs to me that I perhaps ought not to have sent you that note. I did it in a moment of irritation—wanting to have the stupid thing contradicted right and left, as fast as possible. I won't do it again."
They were on excellent terms once more. Irene felt a singular pleasure in his having apologised; it was one of the very rare occasions of his yielding to her on any point whatever. Never had she felt so kindly disposed to him.
Arnold was going to Paris, and on business; he hinted at something pending between his Company and a French Syndicate.
"You are a sort of informal diplomatist," said Irene, her interest keen.
"Now and then, yes. And"—he added with the frankness which was one of his more amiable points—"I rather like it."
"One sees that you do. Better, I suppose, than the thought of going into Parliament."
"That may come some day," he answered, glancing at a gull that hovered above the ship. "Not whilst my father sits there."