“I wanted to tell you,” pursued Miss Bonnicastle, in a steady, matter-of-fact voice, “that he’s going to have a room in this house, and be looked after.”

“Indeed?”

There was a touch of malice in Olga’s surprise.  She held herself rather stiffly.

“It’s just as well to be straightforward,” continued the other.  “I should like to say that it’ll be very much better if you don’t come to see him at all.”

Olga was now very dignified indeed.

“Oh, pray say no more I quite understand—­quite!”

“I shouldn’t have said it at all,” rejoined Miss Bonnicastle, “if I could have trusted your—­discretion.  The fact is, I found I couldn’t.”

“Really!” exclaimed Olga, red with anger.  “You might spare me insults!”

“Come, come!  We’re not going to fly at each other, Olga.  I intended no insult; but, whilst we’re about it, do take advice from one who means it well.  Sentiment is all right, but sentimentality is all wrong.  Do get rid of it, there’s a good girl.  You’re meant for something better.”

Olga made a great sweep of the floor with her skirts, and vanished in a whirl of perfume.

She drove straight to the address which she had seen on Alexander Otway’s card.  It was in a decently sordid street south of the river; in a window on the ground floor hung an announcement of Alexander’s name and business.  As Olga stood at the door, there came out, showily dressed for walking, a person in whom she at once recognised the original of the portrait at Miss Bonnicastle’s.  It was no other than Mrs. Otway, the “Biddy” whose simple singing had so pleased her brother-in-law years ago.

“Is it the agent you want to see?” she asked, in her tongue of County Wexford.  “The door to the right.”

Alexander jumped up, all smiles at the sight of so grand a lady.  He had grown very obese, and very red about the neck; his linen might have been considerably cleaner, and his coat better brushed.  But he seemed in excellent spirits, and glowed when his visitor began by saying that she wished to speak in confidence of a delicate matter.

“Mr. Otway, you have an elder brother, his name Daniel.”

The listener’s countenance fell.

“Madam, I’m sorry to say I have.”

“He has written to me, more than once, a begging letter.  My name doesn’t matter; I’ll only say now that he used to know me slightly long ago.  I wish to ask you whether he is really in want.”

Alexander hesitated, with much screwing of the features.

“Well, he may be, now and then,” was his reply at length.  “I have helped him, but, to tell the truth, it’s not much good.  So far as I know, he has no regular supplies—­but it’s his own fault.”

“Exactly.”  Olga evidently approached a point still more delicate.  “I presume he has worn out the patience of both brothers?”

“Ah!” The agent shook his head, “I’m sorry to say that the other’s patience—­I see you know something of our family circumstances—­ never allowed itself to be tried.  He’s very well off, I believe, but he’ll do nothing for poor Dan, and never would.  I’m bound to admit Dan has his faults, but still——­”