“I suppose I quarrel with them,” said Piers, once more subduing himself, “because they have such gigantic power and don’t make anything like the best use of it.”

“That is to say, they are the work of men—­I don’t mean,” Irene added laughingly, “of men instead of women.  Though I’m not sure that women wouldn’t manage journalism better, if it were left to them.”

“A splendid idea!  All men to go about their affairs and women to report and comment.  Why, it would solve every problem of society!  There’s the hope of the future, beyond a doubt!  Why did I never think of it!”

The next moment Piers was talking about nightingales, how he had heard them sing in Little Russia, where their song is sweeter than in any other part of Europe.  And so the meal passed pleasantly, as did the hour or two after it, until it was time for Otway to take leave.

“You travel straight back to London?” asked Irene.

“Straight back,” he answered, his eyes cast down.

“To-morrow,” said Mrs. Hannaford, “we think of going to Stratford.”

Piers had an impulse which made his hands tremble and his head throb; in spite of himself he had all but asked whether, if he stayed at Malvern overnight, he might accompany them on that expedition.  Reason prevailed, but only just in time, and the conquest left him under a gloomy sense of self-pity, which was the worst thing he had suffered all day.  Not even Mrs. Hannaford’s whispered words on his arrival had been so hard to bear.

He sat in silence, wishing to rise, unable to do so.  When at length he stood up, Irene let her eyes fall upon him, and continued to observe him, as if but half consciously whilst he shook hands with Mrs. Hannaford.  He turned to her, and his lips moved, but what he had tried to say went unexpressed.  Nor did Irene speak; she could have uttered only a civil commonplace, and the tragic pallor of his countenance in that moment kept her mute.  He touched her hand and was gone.

When the house door had closed behind him, the eyes of the two women met.  Standing as before, they conversed with low voices, with troubled brows.  Mrs. Hannaford rapidly explained her part in what had happened.

“You will forgive me, Irene?  I see now that I ought to have told you about it yesterday.”

“Better as it was, perhaps, so far as I am concerned.  But he—­I’m sorry——­”

“He behaved well, don’t you think?”

“Yes,” replied Irene thoughtfully, slowly, “he behaved well.”

They moved apart, and Irene laid her hand on a book, but did not sit down.

“How old is he?” she asked of a sudden.

“Six-and-twenty.”

“One would take him for more.  But of course his ways of thinking show how young he is.”  She fluttered the pages of her book, and smiled.  “It will be interesting to see him in another five years.”

That was all.  Neither mentioned Otway’s name again during the two more days they spent together.