A week later, he heard from Mrs. Hannaford that she and Olga were established in their own home; she begged him to come and see them soon, mentioning an evening when they would be glad if he could dine with them.  And Piers willingly accepted.

The house was at Campden Hill; a house of the kind known to agents as “desirable,” larger than the two ladies needed for their comfort, and, as one saw on entering the hall, famished with tasteful care.  The work had been supervised by Dr. Derwent, who thought that his sister and his niece might thus be tempted to live the orderly life so desirable in their unfortunate circumstances.  When Piers entered, Mrs. Hannaford sat alone in the drawing room; she still had the look of an invalid, but wore a gown which showed to advantage the lines of her figure.  Otway had been told not to dress, and it caused him some surprise to see his hostess adorned as if for an occasion of ceremony.  Her hair was done in a new way, which changed the wonted character of her face, so that she looked younger.  A bunch of pale flowers rested against her bosom, and breathed delicate perfume about her.

“It was discussed,” she said, in a low, intimate voice, “whether we should settle in London or abroad.  But we didn’t like to go away.  Our only real friends are in England, and we must hope to make more.  Olga is so good, now that she sees that I really need her.  She has been so kind and sweet during my illness.”

Whilst they were talking, Miss Hannaford silently made her entrance.  Piers turned his head, and felt a shock of surprise.  Not till now had he seen Olga at her best; he had never imagined her so handsome; it was a wonderful illustration of the effect of apparel.  She, too, had reformed the fashion of her hair, and its tawny abundance was much more effective than in the old careless style.  She looked taller; she stepped with a more graceful assurance, and in offering her hand, betrayed consciousness of Otway’s admiration in a little flush that well became her.

She had subdued her voice, chastened her expressions.  The touch of masculinity on which she had prided herself in her later “Bohemian” days, was quite gone.  Wondering as they conversed, Piers had a difficulty in meeting her look; his eyes dropped to the little silk shoe which peeped from beneath her skirt.  His senses were gratified; he forgot for the moment his sorrow and unrest.

The talk at dinner was rather formal.  Piers, with his indifferent appetite, could do but scanty justice to the dainties offered him, and the sense of luxury added a strangeness to his new relations with Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter.  Olga spoke of a Russian novel she had been reading in a French translation, and was anxious to know whether it represented life as Otway knew it in Russia.  She evinced a wider interest in several directions, emphasised—­ perhaps a little too much—­her inclination for earnest thought:  was altogether a more serious person than hitherto.