ite? This rapture of
devotion, this utter humbling of self, this ardour of the poet soul
singing a fellow-creature to the heaven of heavens--by what alchemy
comes it forth from blood and tissue? Nature has no need of such lyric
life her purpose is well achieved by humbler instrumentality. Romantic
lovers are not the ancestry of noblest lines.

And if--as might well be--his love were defeated, fruitless, what end
in the vast maze of things would his anguish serve?

CHAPTER XXXIV

After his day's work, he had spent an hour among the pictures at
Burlington House. He was lingering before an exquisite landscape,
unwilling to change this atmosphere of calm for the roaring street,
when a voice timidly addressed him:

"Mr. Otway!"

How altered! The face was much, much older, and in some indeterminable
way had lost its finer suggestions. At her best, Olga Hannaford had a
distinction of feature, a singularity of emotional expression, which
made her beautiful in Olga Florio the lines of visage were far less
subtle, and classed her under an inferior type. Transition from
maidenhood to what is called the matronly had been too rapid; it was
emphasised by her costume, which cried aloud in its excess of modish
splendour.

"How glad I am to see you again!" she sighed tremorously, pressing his
hand with fervour, gazing at him with furtive directness. "Are you
living in England now?"

Piers gave an account of himself. He was a little embarrassed but quite
unagitated. A sense of pity averted his eyes after the first wondering
look.

"Will you--may I venture--can you spare the time to come and have tea
with me? My carriage is waiting--I am quite alone--I only looked in for
a few minutes, to rest my mind after a lunch with, oh, such tiresome
people!"

His impulse was to refuse, at all costs to refuse. The voice, the
glance, the phrases jarred upon him, shocked him. Already he had begun
"I am afraid"--when a hurried, vehement whisper broke upon his excuse.

"Don't be unkind to me! I beg you to come! I entreat you!"

"I will come with pleasure," he said in a loud voice of ordinary
civility.

At once she turned, and he followed. Without speaking, they descended
the great staircase; a brougham drove up; they rolled away westward.
Never had Piers felt such thorough moral discomfort; the heavily
perfumed air of the carriage depressed and all but nauseated him; the
inevitable touch of Olga's garments made him shrink. She had