An answer which gratified Irene more keenly than he imagined; she showed it in her face.

When they returned to luncheon, and the ladies went upstairs, Mrs. Hannaford stepped into her niece’s room.

“What you told me yesterday,” she asked, in a nervous undertone, “may it be repeated?”

“Certainly—­to anyone.”

“Then please not to come down until I have had a few minutes’ talk with Mr. Otway.  All this shall be explained, dear, when we are alone again.”

On entering the sitting-room Irene found it harder to preserve a natural demeanour than at her meeting with the visitor a couple of hours ago.  Only when she had heard him speak and in just the same voice as during their walk was she able to turn frankly towards him.  His look had not changed.  Impossible to divine the thoughts hidden by his smile; he bore himself with perfect control.

At table all was cheerfulness.  Speaking of things Russian, Irene recalled her winter in Finland, which she had so greatly enjoyed.

“I remember,” said Otway, “you had just returned when I met you for the first time.”

It was said with a peculiar intonation, which fell agreeably on the listener’s ear; a note familiar, in the permitted degree, yet touchingly respectful; a world of emotion subdued to graceful friendliness.  Irene passed over the reminiscence with a light word or two, and went on to gossip merely of trifles.

“Do you like caviare, Mr. Otway?”

“Except perhaps that supplied by the literary censor,” was his laughing reply.

“Now I am intriguee.  Please explain.”

“We call caviare the bits blacked out in our newspapers and periodicals.”

“Unpalatable enough!” laughed Irene.  “How angry that would make me!”

“I got used to it,” said Piers, “and thought it rather good fun sometimes.  After all, a wise autocrat might well prohibit newspapers altogether, don’t you think?  They have done good, I suppose, but they are just as likely to do harm.  When the next great war comes, newspapers will be the chief cause of it.  And for mere profit, that’s the worst.  There are newspaper proprietors in every country, who would slaughter half mankind for the pennies of the half who were left, without caring a fraction of a penny whether they had preached war for a truth or a lie.”

“But doesn’t a newspaper simply echo the opinions and feelings of its public?”

“I’m afraid it manufactures opinion, and stirs up feeling.  Consider how very few people know or care anything about most subjects of international quarrel.  A mere handful at the noisy centre of things who make the quarrel.  The business of newspapers, in general, is to give a show of importance to what has no real importance at all—­ to prevent the world from living quietly—­to arouse bitterness when the natural man would be quite different.”

“Oh, surely you paint them too black!  We must live, we can’t let the world stagnate.  Newspapers only express the natural life of peoples, acting and interacting.”