gan to talk. It was not the first
time that they had merrily skirmished on political and other grounds;
they amused each other, and, as it seemed, in a perfectly harmless way;
the English way of mirth between man and maid, candid, inallusive,
without self-consciousness. Arnold made the most of his thirty years,
spoke with a tone something paternal. He was wholly sure of himself,
knew so well his own mind, his scheme of existence, that Irene's beauty
and her charm were nothing more to him than an aesthetic perception.
That she should feel an interest in him, a little awe of him, was to be
hoped and enjoyed: he had not the least thought of engaging deeper
emotion--would, indeed, have held himself reprobate had such purpose
entered his head. Nor is it natural to an Englishman of this type to
imagine that girls may fall in love with him. Love has such a
restricted place in their lives, is so consistently kept out of sight
in their familiar converse. They do not entirely believe in it; it ill
accords with their practical philosophy. Marriage--that is another
thing. The approaches to wedlock are a subject of honourable
convention, not to be confused with the trivialities of romance.

"I'm going down to Liverpool," he said, presently, "to meet Trafford
Romaine."

It gratified him to see the gleam in Miss Derwent's eyes the'
announcement had its hoped-for effect. Trafford Romaine, the Atlas of
our Colonial world; the much-debated, the universally interesting
champion of Greater British interests! She knew, of course, that Arnold
Jacks was his friend; no one could talk with Mr. Jacks for half an hour
without learning that; but the off-hand mention of their being about to
meet this very day had an impressiveness for Irene.

"I saw that he was coming to England."

"From the States--yes. He has been over there on a holiday--merely a
holiday. Of course, the papers have tried to find a meaning in it. That
kind of thing amuses him vastly. He says in his last letter to me----"

Carelessly, the letter was drawn from an inner pocket. Only a page and
a half; Arnold read it out. A bluff and rather slangy epistolary style.

"May I see his hand?" asked Irene, trying to make fun of her wish.

He gave her the letter, and watched her amusedly as she gazed at the
first page. On receiving it back again, he took his penknife, carefully
cut out the great man's signature, and offered it for Irene's
acceptance.

"Thank you. But you know, of