Olga began a reply, but the first word choked her.  Her self-command gave way, she sobbed, and turned to hide her face.

“You, too, are being tried beyond your strength,” said Irene, whose womanhood fortified itself in these moments of wretched doubt and shame.  “Come, we must have some lunch whilst aunt is asleep.”

“I want to get it all over—­to tell you as much as I know,” said the other.  “Mother says there is not even an appearance of wrong-doing against her—­that she can only be accused by deliberate falsehood.  She hasn’t told me more than that—­and how can I ask?  Of course he is capable of everything—­of any wickedness!”

“You mean Daniel Otway?”

“No—­her husband—­I will never again call him by the other name.”

“Do you know whether Piers Otway has seen his brother?”

“He hadn’t up to yesterday, when he sent mother a note, saying that the man was away, and couldn’t be heard of.”

With an angry effort Olga recovered her self-possession.  Apart from the natural shame which afflicted her, she seemed to experience more of indignation and impatience than any other feeling.  Growing calmer, she spoke almost with bitterness of her mother’s folly.

“I told her once, quite plainly, that Daniel Otway wasn’t the kind of man she ought to be friendly with.  She was offended:  it was one of the reasons why we couldn’t go on living together.  I believe, if the truth were known, it was worry about him that caused her breakdown in health.  She’s a weak, soft-natured woman, and he—­I know very well what he is.  He and the other one—­both Piers Otway’s brothers—­have always been worthless creatures.  She knew it well enough, and yet——!  I suppose their mother——­”

She broke off in a tone of disgust.  Irene, looking at her with more attentiveness, waited for what she would next say.

“Of course you remember,” Olga added, after a pause, “that they are only half-brothers to Piers Otway?”

“Of course I do.”

“His mother must have been a very different woman.  You have heard ——?”

They exchanged looks.  Irene nodded, and averted her eyes, murmuring, “Aunt explained to me, after his father’s death.”

“One would have supposed,” said Olga, “that they would turn into the honourable men, and he the scamp.  Nature doesn’t seem to care much about setting us a moral lesson.”

And she laughed—­a short, bitter laugh.  Irene, her brows knit in painful thought, kept silence.

They were going to the dining-room, when a servant made known to them that Mrs. Hannaford was asking for her daughter.

“Do have something to eat,” said Olga, “and I’ll tell her you are here.  You shall have lunch first; I insist upon it, and I’ll join you in a moment.”

In a quarter of an hour, Irene went up to her aunt’s room.  Mrs. Hannaford was sitting in an easy chair, placed so that a pale ray of sunshine fell upon her.  She rose, feebly, only to fall back again; her hands were held out in pitiful appeal, and tears moistened her cheeks.  Beholding this sad picture, Irene forgot the doubt that offended her; she was all soft compassion.  The suffering woman clung about her neck, hid her face against her bosom, sobbed and moaned.