bout Miss Derwent," Piers answered, bracing himself
to frankness.

Mrs. Borisoff's lips contracted, in something which was not quite a
smile, but which became a smile before she spoke.

"If you hadn't told the truth, Mr. Otway, I would have sent you about
your business. Well, talk of her; I am ready."

"But certainly not if it wearies you----"

"Talk! talk!"

"I'll begin with a question. Does Miss Derwent go much into society?"

"No; not very much. And it's only the last few months that she has been
seen at all in London--I mean, since the affair that people talked
about."

"Did they talk--disagreeably?"

"Gossip--chatter--half malicious without malicious intention--don't you
know the way of the sweet creatures? I would tell you more if I could.
The simple truth is that Irene has never spoken to me about it--never
once. When it happened, she came suddenly to Paris, to a hotel, and
from there wrote me a letter, just saying that her marriage was off; no
word of explanation. Of course I fetched her at once to my house, and
from that moment to this I have heard not one reference from her to the
matter. You would like to know something about the hero? He has been
away a good deal--building up the Empire, as they say; which means, of
course, looking after his own and other people's dividends."

"Thank you. Now let us talk about the Castle."

But Mrs. Borisoff was not in a good humour to-day, and Piers very soon
took his leave. Her hand felt rather hot; he noticed this particularly,
as she let it lie in his longer than usual--part of her
absent-mindedness.

Piers had often resented, as a weakness, his susceptibility to the
influence of others' moods; he did so to-day, when having gone to Mrs.
Borisoff in an unusually cheerful frame of mind, he came away languid
and despondent. But his scheme of life permitted no such idle brooding
as used to waste his days; self-discipline sent him to his work, as
usual, through the afternoon, and in the evening he walked ten miles.

The weather was brilliant. As he stood, far away in rural stillness,
watching a noble sunset, he repeated to himself words which had of late
become his motto, "Enjoy now! This moment will never come again." But
the intellectual resolve was one thing, the moral aptitude another. He
did not enjoy; how many hours in all his life had brought him real
enjoyment? Idle to repeat and repeat that life was the passing minute,
which must be seized, made the mo