Olga’s head drooped, as she said in a voice barely audible: 

“Ah, you knew it.”

“What of that?”

“I see—­you knew it——­”

“What of that, Olga?” he repeated impatiently.  “I knew it as a bare fact—­no explanation.  What does it mean?  You know, I suppose?”

In spite of himself, look and tones betrayed his eagerness for her reply.

“They disagreed about something,” said Olga.  “I don’t know what.  I shouldn’t wonder if they make it up again.”

At this moment the woman in care of the house entered with the tea-tray.  To give herself a countenance, Olga spoke of something indifferent, and when they were alone again, their talk avoided the personal matters which had so embarrassed both of them.  Olga said presently that she was going to see her friend Miss Bonnicastle to-morrow.

“If I could see only the least chance of supporting myself, I would go to live with her again.  She’s the most sensible girl I know, and she did me good.”

“How, did you good?”

“She helped me against myself,” replied Olga abruptly.  “No one else ever did that.”

Then she turned again to the safer subjects.

“When shall I see you again?” Otway inquired, rising after a long silence, during which both had seemed lost in their thoughts.

“Who knows?—­But I will write and tell you what my uncle says about the letters, if he says anything.  Again, thank you!”

She gave her hand frankly.  Piers held it, and looked into her face as once before.

“Olga——­”

The girl uttered a cry of distress, drew her hand away, and exclaimed in a half-hysterical voice: 

“No!  What right have you?”

“Every right!  Do you know what your mother said to me—­her last words to me——?”

“You mustn’t tell me!” Her tones were softer.  “Not to-day.  If we meet again——­”

“Of course we shall meet again!”

“I don’t know.  Yes, yes; we shall.  But you must go now; it is time I went home.”

He touched her hand again, and left the room without looking back.  Before the door had closed behind him, Olga ran forward with a stifled cry.  The door was shut.  She stood before it with tears in her eyes, her fingers clenched together on her breast, and sobbed miserably.

For nearly half an hour she sat by the fire, head on hands, deeply brooding.  In the house there was not a sound.  All at once it seemed to her that a voice called, uttering her name; she started, her blood chilled with fear.  The voice was her mother’s; she seemed still to hear it, so plainly had it been audible, coming from she knew not where.

She ran to her hat and jacket, which lay in a corner of the room, put them on with feverish haste, and fled out into the street.

CHAPTER XXIX