Irene!  Irene!  Was she brought nearer to him by her own experience of heart-trouble?  That she had suffered, he could not doubt; impossible for her to have given her consent to marriage unless she believed herself in love with the man who wooed her.  It could have been no trifling episode in her life, whatever the story; Irene was not of the women who yield their hands in jest, in pique, in lighthearted ignorance.  The change visible in her was more, he fancied, than could be due to the mere lapse of time; during her silences, she had the look of one familiar with mental conflict, perhaps of one whose pride had suffered an injury.  The one or two glances which he ventured whilst she was talking with the man who succeeded to his place beside her, perceived a graver countenance, a reserve such as she had not used with him; and of this insubstantial solace he made a sort of hope which winged the sleepless hours till daybreak.

He had permission to call upon Mrs. Borisoff at times alien to polite routine.  Thus, when nearly a week had passed, he sought her company at midday, and found her idling over a book, her seat by a window which viewed the Thames and the broad Embankment with its plane trees, and London beyond the water, picturesque in squalid hugeness through summer haze and the sagging smoke of chimneys numberless.  She gave a languid hand, pointed to a chair, gazed at him with embarrassing fixity.

“I don’t know about the Castle,” were her first words.  “Perhaps I shall give it up.”

“You are not serious?”

Piers spoke and looked in dismay; and still she kept her heavy eyes on him.

“What does it matter to you?” she asked carelessly.

“I counted on—­on showing you the dales——­”

Mrs. Borisoff nodded twice or thrice, and laughed, then pointed to the prospect through the window.

“This is more interesting.  Imagine historians living a thousand years hence—­what would they give to see what we see now!”

“Oh, one often has that thought.  It’s about the best way of making ordinary life endurable.”

They watched the steamers and barges, silent for a minute or two.

“So you had rather I didn’t give up the castle?”

“I should be horribly disappointed.”

“Yes—­no doubt you would.  Why did you come to see me to-day?  No, no, no!  The real reason.

“I wanted to talk about Miss Derwent,” Piers answered, bracing himself to frankness.

Mrs. Borisoff’s lips contracted, in something which was not quite a smile, but which became a smile before she spoke.

“If you hadn’t told the truth, Mr. Otway, I would have sent you about your business.  Well, talk of her; I am ready.”

“But certainly not if it wearies you——­”

“Talk! talk!”

“I’ll begin with a question.  Does Miss Derwent go much into society?”

“No; not very much.  And it’s only the last few months that she has been seen at all in London—­I mean, since the affair that people talked about.”