late now."

"And this, you feel, is ruining your life?"

"I'm troubled about it, but more on his account than mine. I'll tell
you, Irene, I want to break off, for good and all, and I'm afraid. It's
a hard thing to do."

"Now I understand you. Do you think"--Irene added in another
tone--"that it's well to be what they call in love with the man one
marries?"

"Think? Of course I do!"

"Many people doubt it. We are told that French marriages are often
happier than English, because they are arranged with a practical view,
by experienced people."

"It depends," replied Olga, with a half-disdainful smile, "what one
calls happiness. I, for one, don't want a respectable, plodding,
money-saving married life. I'm not fit for it. Of course some people
are."

"Then, you could never bring yourself to marry a man you merely
liked--in a friendly way?"

"I think it horrible, hideous!" was the excited reply. "And yet"--her
voice dropped--"it may not be so for some women. I judge only by
myself."

"I suspect, Olga, that some people are never in love--never could be in
that state."

"I daresay, poor things!"

Irene, though much in earnest, was moved to laugh.

"After all, you know," she said, "they have less worry."

"Of course they have, and live more useful lives, if it comes to that."

"A useful life isn't to be despised, you know."

Olga looked at her cousin; so fixedly that Irene had to turn away, and
in a moment spoke as though changing the subject.

"Have you heard that Mr. Otway is coming to England again?"

"What!" cried Olga with sudden astonishment. "You are thinking of
_him_--of Piers Otway?"

Irene became the colour of the rose; her eyes flashed with annoyance.

"How extraordinary you are, Olga! As if one couldn't mention anyone
without that sort of meaning! I spoke of Mr. Otway by pure accident. He
had nothing whatever to do with what I was saying before."

Olga sank into dulness again, murmuring, "I beg your pardon." When a
minute had elapsed in silence, she added, without looking up, "He was
dreadfully in love with you, poor fellow. I suppose he has got over it."

An uncertain movement, a wandering look, and Miss Derwent rose. She
stood before one of the rough-washed posters, seeming to admire it;
Olga eyed her askance, with curiosity.

"I know only one thing," Irene exclaimed abruptly, without turning.
"It's better not to think too much about all that."

"How _can_ one think too much of it?"