At midday a messenger brought Irene a letter from Arnold Jacks.  Arnold wrote that he had just heard of her aunt’s death:  that he was deeply grieved, and hastened to condole with her.  He did not come in person, thinking she would prefer to let this sad day pass over before they met, but he would call to-morrow morning.  In the meantime, he would be grateful for a line assuring him that she was well.

Having read this, Irene threw it aside as if it had been a tradesman’s circular.  Not thus should he have written—­if write he must instead of coming.  In her state of agitation after the hours spent with Olga, this bald note of sympathy seemed almost an insult; to keep silence as to the real cause of Mrs. Hannaford’s death was much the same, she felt, as hinting a doubt of the poor lady’s innocence.  Arnold Jacks was altogether too decorous.  Would it not have been natural for a man in his position to utter at least an indignant word?  It might have been as allusive as his fine propriety demanded, but surely the word should have been spoken!

After some delay, she replied in a telegram, merely saying that she was quite well.

Olga, as soon as she felt able, had sat down to write a letter.  She begged her cousin to have it posted at once.

“It’s to Mr. Otway,” she said, in an unsteady voice.  And, when the letter had been despatched, she added, “It will be a great blow to him.  I had a letter last night asking for news—­Oh, I meant to bring it!” she exclaimed, with a momentary return of her distracted manner.  “I left it in my room.  It will be lost-destroyed!”

Irene quieted her, promising that the letter should be kept safe.

“Perhaps he will call,” Olga said presently.  “But no, not so soon.  He may have written again.  I must have the letter if there is one.  Someone must go over to the house this evening.”

Through a great part of the afternoon, she slept, and whilst she was sleeping there arrived for her a telegram, which, Irene did not doubt, came from Piers Otway.  It proved to be so, and Olga betrayed nervous tremors after reading the message.

“I shall have a letter in the morning,” she said to her cousin, several times; and after that she did not care to talk, but sat for hours busy with her thoughts, which seemed not altogether sad.

At eleven o’clock next morning, Arnold Jacks was announced.  Irene, who sat with Olga in the drawing-room, had directed that her visitor should be shown into the library, and there she received him.  Arnold stepped eagerly towards her; not smiling indeed, but with the possibility of a smile manifest in every line of his countenance.  There could hardly have been a stronger contrast with his manner of the day before yesterday.  For this Irene had looked.  Seeing precisely what she expected, her eyes fell; she gave a careless hand; she could not speak.

Arnold talked, talked.  He said the proper things, and said them well; to things the reverse of proper, not so much as the faintest reference.  This duty discharged, he spoke of the house he had taken; his voice grew animated; at length the latent smile stole out through his eyes and spread to his lips.  Irene kept silence.  Respecting her natural sadness, the lover made his visit brief, and retired with an air of grave satisfaction.