other of your light topics."

It seemed possible that they might have the compartment to
themselves, for it was mid-August, and the tumult of northward
migration had ceased. Arnold Jacks, had he known a moment sooner,
would have settled it with the guard. He looked forbiddingly at a
man who approached; who, in his turn, stared haughtily and turned
away.

Irene beckoned to Thibaut, and from the window gave him a trivial
message for her father, speaking in French; Thibaut, happy to serve
her, put a world of chivalrous respect into his "Bien,
Mademoiselle!" Arnold Jacks averted his face and smiled. Was she
girlish enough, then, to find pleasure in speaking French before
him? A charming trait!

The train started, and Mr. Jacks began 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,