“That’s the very point we have all been losing sight of,” observed her uncle, gratified.  “It would have been a good deal easier, no doubt, to go on to the marriage.”

“Easier!” echoed the girl.  “She has done the most wonderful thing!  I admire her, and envy her strength of character.”

The Doctor’s eyes had fallen upon that crayon portrait which held the place of honour on the drawing-room walls.  Playing with superstition, as does every man capable of high emotional life, he was wont to see in the pictured countenance of his dead wife changes of expression, correspondent with the mood in which he regarded it.  At one time the beloved features smiled upon him; at another they were sad, or anxious.  To-night, the eyes, the lips were so strongly expressive of gladness that he felt startled as he gazed.  A joy from the years gone by suddenly thrilled him.  He sat silent, too deeply moved by memories for speech about the present.  And when at length he resumed talk with Olga, his voice was very gentle, his words all kindliness.  The girl had never known him so sympathetic with her.

On the morrow—­it was Saturday—­Olga received a letter from Piers Otway, who said that he had something of great importance to speak about, and must see her; could they not meet at the Campden Hill House, it being inadvisable for him to call at Dr. Derwent’s?  Either this afternoon or to-morrow would do, if Olga would appoint a time.

She telegraphed, appointing this afternoon at three.

Half an hour before that, she entered the house, which was now occupied only by a caretaker.  Dr. Derwent was trying to let it furnished for the rest of the short lease.  Olga had a fire quickly made in the drawing-room, and ordered tea.  She laid aside her outdoor things, viewed herself more than once in a mirror, and moved about restlessly.  When there sounded a visitor’s knock at the front door, she flushed and was overcome with nervousness; she stepped forward to meet her friend, but could not speak.  Otway had taken her hand in both his own; he looked at her with grave kindliness.  It was their first meeting since Mrs. Hannaford’s death.

“I hesitated about asking you to see me here,” he said.  “But I thought—­I hoped——­”

His embarrassment increased, whilst Olga was gaining self-command.

“You were quite right,” she said.  “I think I had rather see you here than anywhere else.  It isn’t painful to me—­oh! anything but painful!”

They sat down.  Piers was holding a large envelope, bulgy with its contents, whatever they were, and sealed; his eyes rested upon it.

“I have to speak of something which at first will sound unwelcome to you; but it is only the preface to what will make you very glad.  It is about my brother.  I have seen him two or three times this last week on a particular business, in which at length I have succeeded.  Here,” he touched the envelope, “are all the letters he possessed in your mother’s writing.”