“Better reply to-night,” said Olga, “and save him the trouble of coming here.”

The letter in her hand, Mrs. Hannaford stood thinking, a half-smile about her lips.

“Yes; I must write,” she said slowly.  “But perhaps he could come and see us in the country.  I’ll tell him where we are going.”

They talked of possible retreats, and decided upon Epsom, which was not far from their old home at Ewell; then Mrs. Hannaford replied to Otway.  Through the past three years she had often heard from him, and she knew that he was purposing a visit to England, but no date had been mentioned.  After writing, she was silent, thoughtful.  Olga, too, having been out to post the letter, sat absorbed in her own meditations.  They did some hasty packing before bedtime, but talked little.  They were to rise early, and flee at once from the hated house.

A sunny morning—­it was July—­saw them start on their journey, tremulous, but rejoicing.  Long before midday they had found lodgings that suited them, and had made themselves at home.  The sense of liberty gave everything a delightful aspect; their little sitting-room was perfection the trees and fields had an ideal beauty after Hammersmith, and they promised themselves breezy walks on the Downs above.  Not a word of the trouble between them.  The mother held to a hope that the great change of circumstance would insensibly turn Olga’s thoughts from her reckless purpose; and, for the moment, Olga herself seemed happy in self-forgetfulness.

The man to whom she had plighted herself was named Kite.  He did not look like a bird of prey; his countenance, his speech, were anything but sinister; but for his unlucky position, Mrs. Hannaford would probably have rather taken to him.  Olga’s announcement came with startling suddenness.  For a twelvemonth she had been trying to make money by artistic work, and to a small extent had succeeded, managing to sell a few drawings to weekly papers, and even to get a poor little commission for the illustrating of a poor little book.  In this way she had made a few acquaintances in the so-called Bohemian world, but she spoke seldom of them, and Mrs. Hannaford suspected no special intimacy with anyone whose name was mentioned to her.  One evening (a week ago) Olga said quietly that she was going to be married.

Mr. Kite was summoned to Hammersmith.  A lank, loose-limbed, indolent-looking man of thirty or so, with a long, thin face, tangled hair, gentle eyes.  The clothes he wore were decent, but suggested the idea that they had been purchased at second-hand; they did not fit him well; perhaps he was the kind of man whose clothes never do fit.  Unless Mrs. Hannaford was mistaken, his breath wafted an alcoholic odour; but Mr. Kite had every appearance of present sobriety.  He seemed chronically tired; sat down with a little sigh of satisfaction; stretched his legs, and let his arms fall full length.  To the maternal eye, a singular, problematic being, anything but likely