begun to
talk, and talked incessantly throughout the homeward drive; not much of
herself, or of him, but about the pleasures and excitements of the
idle-busy world. It was meant, he supposed, to convey to him an idea of
her prosperous and fashionable life. Her husband, she let fall, was for
the moment in Italy; affairs of importance sometimes required his
presence there; but they both preferred England. The intellectual
atmosphere of London--where else could one live on so high a level?

The carriage stopped in a street beyond Edgware Road, at a house of
more modest appearance than Otway had looked for. Just as they
alighted, a nursemaid with a perambulator was approaching the door;
Piers caught sight of a very pale little face shadowed by the hood, but
his companion, without heeding, ran up the steps, and knocked
violently. They entered.

Still the oppressive atmosphere of perfumes. Left for a few minutes in
a little drawing-room, or boudoir, Piers stood marvelling at the
ingenuity which had packed so much furniture and bric-tate-brac, so
many pictures, so much drapery, into so small a space. He longed to
throw open the window; he could not sit still in this odour-laden
hothouse, where the very flowers were burdensome by excess. When Olga
reappeared, she was gorgeous in flowing tea-gown; her tawny hair hung
low in artful profusion; her neck and arms were bare, her feet
brilliantly slippered.

"Ah! How good, how good, it is to sit down and talk to you once
more!--Do you like my room?"

"You have made yourself very comfortable," replied Otway, striking a
note as much as possible in contrast to that of his hostess. "Some of
these drawings are your own work, no doubt?"

"Yes, some of them," she answered languidly. "Do you remember that
pastel? Ah, surely you do--from the old days at Ewell!"

"Of course!--That is a portrait of your husband?" he added, indicating
a head on a little easel.

"Yes--idealised!"

She laughed and put the subject away. Then tea was brought in, and
after pouring it, Olga grew silent. Resolute to talk, Piers had the
utmost difficulty in finding topics, but he kept up an everyday sort of
chat, postponing as long as possible the conversation foreboded by his
companion's face. When he was weary, Olga's opportunity came.

"There is something I _must_ say to you----"

Her arms hung lax, her head drooped forward, she looked at him from
under her brows.

"I have suffered so much--oh, I have s