“The end?  No, not even that.”

On their return, he found himself alone with Mrs. Hannaford for a few minutes.  He spoke abruptly, with an effort.

“Do you see much of the Derwents?”

“Not much.  Our lives are so different, you know.”

“Will you tell me frankly?  If I called there—­when I come south again—­should I be welcome?”

“Oh, why not?” replied the lady, veiling embarrassment.  “I see.”  Otway’s face darkened.  “You think it better I shouldn’t.  I understand.”

Olga reappeared, and the young man turned to her with resolute cheerfulness.  When at length he took leave of his friends, they saw nothing but good spirits and healthful energy.  He would certainly see them again before leaving England, and before long would let them know all his projects in detail.  So he went his way into the summer night, back to the roaring world of London; one man in the multitude who knew his heart’s desire, and saw all else in the light thereof.

For three days, Mrs. Hannaford and her daughter lived expectant; then arrived in answer to the letter left behind at Hammersmith.  It came through Dr. Derwent’s solicitor, whose address Mrs. Hannaford had given for this purpose.  A curt, dry communication, saying simply that the fugitive might do as she chose, and would never be interfered with.  Parting was, under the circumstances, evidently the wise course; but it must be definite, legalised; the writer had no wish ever to see his wife again.  As to her suggestion about money, in that too she would please herself; it relieved him to know her independent, and he was glad to be equally so.

For all that, Lee Hannaford made no objection to receiving the portion of his wife’s income which she offered.  He took it without thanks, keeping his reflections to himself.  And therewith was practically dissolved one, at least, of the innumerable mock marriages which burden the lives of mankind.  Mrs. Hannaford’s only bitterness was that in law she remained wedded.  It soothed her but moderately to reflect that she was a martyr to national morality.

She was pressed to come and stay for a while in Bryanston Square, but Olga would not accept that invitation.  Her mother’s affairs being satisfactorily settled, the girl returned to her fixed purpose; she would hear of no further postponement of her marriage.  Thereupon Mrs. Hannaford took a step she feared to be useless, but which was the only hope remaining to her.  She wrote to Kite; she explained to him her circumstances; she asked him whether, out of justice to Olga, who might repent a hasty union, he would join her (Mrs. Hannaford) in a decision to put off the marriage for one year.  If, in a twelvemonth, Olga were still of the same mind, all opposition should be abandoned, and more than that, pecuniary help would be given to the couple.  She appealed to his manhood, to his generosity, to his good sense.

And, much to her surprise, the appeal was successful.  Kite wrote the oddest letter in reply, all disjointed philosophising, with the gist that perhaps Mrs. Hannaford was right.  No harm in waiting a year; perhaps much good.  Life was a mystery; love was uncertain.  He would get on with his art, the only stable thing from his point of view.