They spoke together till dusk.  The confession which Mrs. Hannaford made to her niece went further than that elicited from her either by Olga or Dr. Derwent.  In broken sentences, in words of shamefaced incoherence, but easily understood, she revealed a passion which had been her torturing secret, and a temptation against which she had struggled year after year.  The man was unworthy; she had long known it; she suffered only the more.  She had been imprudent, once or twice all but reckless, never what is called guilty.  Convinced of the truth of what she heard, Irene drew a long sigh, and became almost cheerful in her ardour of solace and encouragement.  No one had ever seen the Irene who came forth under this stress of circumstance; no one had ever heard the voice with which she uttered her strong heart.  The world?  Who cared for the world?  Let it clack and grin!  They would defend the truth, and quietly wait the issue.  No more weakness Brain and conscience must now play their part.

“But if it should go against me?  If I am made free of that man ——?”

“Then be free of him!” exclaimed the girl, her eyes flashing through tears.  “Be glad!”

“No—­no!  I am afraid of myself——­”

“We will help you.  When you are well again, your mind will be stronger to resist.  Not that—­never that!  You know it is impossible.”

“I know.  And there is one thing that would really make it so.  I haven’t told you—­another thing I had to say—­why I wanted so to see you.”

Irene looked kindly into the agitated face.

“It’s about Piers Otway.  He came to see us here.  I had formed a hope ——­”

“Olga?”

“Yes.  Oh, if that could be!”

She caught the girl’s hand in her hot palms, and seemed to entreat her for a propitious word.  Irene was very still, thinking; and at length she smiled.

“Who can say?  Olga is good and clever——­”

“It might have been; I know it might.  But after this?”

“More likely than not,” said Irene, with a half-absent look, “this would help to bring it about.”

“Dear, only your marriage could have changed him—­nothing else.  Oh, I am sure, nothing else!  He has the warmest and truest heart!”

Irene sat with bowed head, her lips compressed; she smiled again, but more faintly.  In the silence there sounded a soft tap at the door.

“I will see who it is,” said Irene.

Olga stood without, holding a letter.  She whispered that the handwriting of the address (to Mrs. Hannaford) was Piers Otway’s, and that possibly this meant important news.  Irene took the letter, and re-entered the room.  It was necessary to light the gas before Mrs. Hannaford could read the sheet that trembled in her hand.

“What I feared!  He can do nothing.”

She held the letter to Irene, who perused it.  Piers began by saying that as result of a note he had posted yesterday, Daniel had this morning called upon him at his office.  They had had a long talk.