“Doing is one thing,” he replied. “Letting things go on is another, I’m afraid you’ll come to look upon me as a blackguard, and that must make some difference.”
“Nothing will make any difference in our love for you. So long as Gerard and I sit opposite here, there will be your place always between us. Besides, the idea of your being a blackguard is simply silly!”
He laughed in spite of his depression. Her tone was emphatic.
“I believe you’d champion me through a grand jury list of iniquities. I wish you could have split yourself into two in the years past, Renie. You would have kept me out of mischief.”
It was Irene’s turn to look troubled.
“Do you know, Hugh,” she said in a low voice, “that lately I have feared I may have spoiled your life.”
“Ah, my dear child,” he cried, regaining in a flash all his old vehemence, “it is not the missing of the angel’s touch that spoils a man’s life. He is singularly fortunate to come within the beat of her wings.”
“Thank you,” she said, blushing very prettily. “That is like your old, extravagant self.”
For a long time afterwards the colour remained in her face. Thousands of women have been called angels, and have thought little of it. But not one has felt otherwise than tremulously abashed when the similitude has come from a man’s worshipping sincerity.
But that was the end of the conversation. Irene had said her say, and no more was to be gained by dwelling on the topic.