“You didn’t get my telegram?” broke from her lips, in a hurried whisper.  “Oh!  I feared it would be too late, and all is too late.”

“You mean——­”

“The engagement is announced.”

She had time to say no more.  At that moment Irene entered the room, dressed for walking.  At first she did not seem to recognise the visitor, then her face lighted up; she smiled, subdued the slight embarrassment which had succeeded to her perplexity, and stepped quickly forward.

“Mr. Otway!  You are staying here?”

“A few hours only.  I came down yesterday on business—­which is finished.”

His voice was so steady, his bearing so self-possessed, that Irene found herself relieved from the immediate restraint of the situation.  She could not quite understand his presence here; there was a mystery, in which she saw that her aunt was involved; the explanation might be forthcoming after their visitor’s departure.  For the moment, enough to remark that the sun was dispersing the clouds, and that all were ready to enjoy a walk.  Mrs. Hannaford, glancing anxiously at Irene before she spoke, hoped that Mr. Otway would return with them to lunch; Irene added her voice to the invitation; and Piers at once accepted.

Talk suggested by the locality occupied them until they were away from the houses; by that time Irene had thoroughly reassured herself, and was as tranquil in mind as in manner.  Whatever the meaning of Piers Otway’s presence, no difficulty could come about in the few hours he was to spend with them.  Involuntarily she found herself listening to the rhythm of certain verses which she had received some months ago, and which she still knew by heart; but nothing in the author’s voice or look indicated a desire to remind her of that romantic passage in their acquaintance.  If they were still to meet from time to time—­and why not?—­common sense must succeed to vain thoughts in the poet’s mind.  He was quite capable of the transition, she felt sure.  His way of talking, the short and generally pointed sentences in which he spoke on whatever subject, betokened a habit of lucid reflection.  Had it been permissible, she would have dwelt with curiosity on the problem of Piers Otway’s life and thoughts; but that she resolutely ignored, strong in the irrevocable choice which she had made only yesterday.  He was interesting, but not to her.  She knew him on the surface, and cared to know no more.

Business was a safe topic; at the first noticeable pause, Irene led to it.

Piers laughed with pleasure as he began to describe Andre Moncharmont.  A man of the happiest vivacity, of the sweetest humour, irresistibly amusing, yet never ridiculous—­entirely competent in business, yet with a soul as little mercantile as man’s could be.  Born a French Swiss, be had lived a good deal in Italy, and had all the charm of Italian manners; but in whatever country, he made himself at home, and by virtue of his sunny temper saw only the best in each nationality.  His recreation was music, and he occasionally composed.