“Will you—­may I venture—­can you spare the time to come and have tea with me?  My carriage is waiting—­I am quite alone—­I only looked in for a few minutes, to rest my mind after a lunch with, oh, such tiresome people!”

His impulse was to refuse, at all costs to refuse.  The voice, the glance, the phrases jarred upon him, shocked him.  Already he had begun “I am afraid”—­when a hurried, vehement whisper broke upon his excuse.

“Don’t be unkind to me!  I beg you to come!  I entreat you!”

“I will come with pleasure,” he said in a loud voice of ordinary civility.

At once she turned, and he followed.  Without speaking, they descended the great staircase; a brougham drove up; they rolled away westward.  Never had Piers felt such thorough moral discomfort; the heavily perfumed air of the carriage depressed and all but nauseated him; the inevitable touch of Olga’s garments made him shrink.  She had begun to talk, and talked incessantly throughout the homeward drive; not much of herself, or of him, but about the pleasures and excitements of the idle-busy world.  It was meant, he supposed, to convey to him an idea of her prosperous and fashionable life.  Her husband, she let fall, was for the moment in Italy; affairs of importance sometimes required his presence there; but they both preferred England.  The intellectual atmosphere of London—­where else could one live on so high a level?

The carriage stopped in a street beyond Edgware Road, at a house of more modest appearance than Otway had looked for.  Just as they alighted, a nursemaid with a perambulator was approaching the door; Piers caught sight of a very pale little face shadowed by the hood, but his companion, without heeding, ran up the steps, and knocked violently.  They entered.

Still the oppressive atmosphere of perfumes.  Left for a few minutes in a little drawing-room, or boudoir, Piers stood marvelling at the ingenuity which had packed so much furniture and bric-tate-brac, so many pictures, so much drapery, into so small a space.  He longed to throw open the window; he could not sit still in this odour-laden hothouse, where the very flowers were burdensome by excess.  When Olga reappeared, she was gorgeous in flowing tea-gown; her tawny hair hung low in artful profusion; her neck and arms were bare, her feet brilliantly slippered.

“Ah!  How good, how good, it is to sit down and talk to you once more!—­Do you like my room?”

“You have made yourself very comfortable,” replied Otway, striking a note as much as possible in contrast to that of his hostess.  “Some of these drawings are your own work, no doubt?”

“Yes, some of them,” she answered languidly.  “Do you remember that pastel?  Ah, surely you do—­from the old days at Ewell!”

“Of course!—­That is a portrait of your husband?” he added, indicating a head on a little easel.

“Yes—­idealised!”

She laughed and put the subject away.  Then tea was brought in, and after pouring it, Olga grew silent.  Resolute to talk, Piers had the utmost difficulty in finding topics, but he kept up an everyday sort of chat, postponing as long as possible the conversation foreboded by his companion’s face.  When he was weary, Olga’s opportunity came.