Had she just escaped some serious peril, Olga could not have worn a more agitated look.  Her hand resisted Otway’s approach; she would not seat herself, but moved nervously hither and thither, her eyes constantly turning to the door.  It was in vain that Piers laughed at the incident, asking what it could possibly matter to them that some person had wished to see Miss Bonnicastle, and had gone away thinking no one was within; Olga made a show of assenting, she smiled and pretended to recover herself, but was still tremulous and unable to converse.

He took her hands, held them firmly, compelled her to meet his look.

“Let us have an end of this, Olga!  Your life is unhappy—­let me help you to forget.  And help me!  I want your love.  Come to me—­ we can help each other—­put an end to this accursed loneliness, this longing and raging that eats one’s heart away!”

She suffered him to hold her close—­her head bent back, the eyes half veiled by their lids.

“Give me one day—­to think——­”

“Not one hour, not one minute!  Now!”

“Because you are stronger than I am, that doesn’t make me really yours.”  She spoke in stress of spirit, her eyes wide and fearful.  “If I said ‘yes,’ I might break my promise.  I warn you!  I can’t trust myself—­I warn you not to trust me!”

“I will take the risk!”

“I have warned you.  Yes, yes!  I will try!—­Let me go now, and stay here till I have gone.  I must go now!” She shook with hysterical passion.  “Else I take back my promise!—­I will see you in two days; not here; I will think of some place.”

She drew towards the exit, and when her one hand was on the key, Piers, with sudden self-subdual, spoke.

“You have promised!”

“Yes, I will write very soon.”

With a look of gratitude, a smile all but of tenderness, she passed from his sight.

On the pavement, she looked this way and that.  Fifty yards away, on the other side of the street, a well-dressed man stood supporting himself on his umbrella, as if he had been long waiting; though to her shortness of sight the figure was featureless, Olga trembled as she perceived it, and started at a rapid walk towards the cabstand at the top of the street.  Instantly, the man made after her, almost running.  He caught her up before she could approach the vehicles.

“So you were there!  Something told me you were there!”

“What do you mean, Mr. Florio?”

The man was raging with jealous anger; trying to smile, he showed his teeth in a mere grin, and sputtered his words.

“The door was shut with the key!  Why was that?”

“You mustn’t speak to me in this way,” said Olga, with troubled remonstrance rather than indignation.  “When I visit my friend, we don’t always care to be disturbed-----”

“Ha!  Your friend—­Miss Bonnicastle—­was not there!  I have seen her in Oxford Street!  She said no one was there this morning, but I doubted—­I came!”