him now and again during his years in Russia; a relapse not alone in physical training, but from the ideal of chastity.  He had cursed the temper of his blood; he had raved at himself for vulgar gratifications; and once more the struggle was renewed.  Asceticism in diet had failed him doubly; it reduced his power of wholesome exertion, and caused a mental languor treacherous to his chief purpose.  Nowadays he ate and drank like any other of the sons of men, on the whole to his plain advantage.

A day or two after receiving a letter from Mrs. Hannaford, in which she told him of her removal to Dr. Derwent’s house, he bade farewell to his father.

To his hotel in London, that night, came a note he had expected.  Mrs. Hannaford asked him to call in Bryanston Square at eleven the next morning.

As he approached the house, memories shamed him.  How he had slunk about the square under his umbrella; how he had turned away in black despair after that “Not at home”; his foolish long-tailed coat, his glistening stovepipe!  To-day, with scarce a thought for his dress, he looked merely what he was:  an educated man, of average physique, of intelligent visage, of easy hearing.  For all that, his heart throbbed as he stood at the door, and with catching breath, he followed the servant upstairs.

Before Mrs. Hannaford appeared, he had time to glance round the drawing-room, which was simpler in array than is common in such houses.  His eye fell upon a portrait, a large crayon drawing, hung in a place of honour; he knew it must represent Irene’s mother; there was a resemblance to the face which haunted him, with more of sweetness, with a riper humanity.  Whilst his wife still lived, Dr. Derwent had not been able to afford a painting of her; this drawing was done and well done, in the after days from photographs.  On the wall beneath it was a little bracket, supporting a little glass vessel which held a rose.  The year round, this tiny altar never lacked its flower.

Mrs. Hannaford entered.  Her smile of greeting was not untroubled, but seeing her for the first time somewhat ornately clad, and with suitable background, Piers was struck by the air of youth that animated her features.  He had always admired Mrs. Hannaford, had always liked her, and as she took his hand in both her own, he felt a warm response to her unfeigned kindliness.

“Well, is it settled?”

“It is settled.  I go back to Odessa, remain with the firm for another six months, then make the great launch!”

They laughed together, both nervously.  Piers’ eyes wandered, and Mrs. Hannaford, as she sat down, made an obvious effort to compose herself.

“I didn’t ask you, the other day,” she began, as if on a sudden thought, “whether you had seen either of your brothers.”

Piers shook his head, smiling.

“No.  Alexander, I hear, is somewhere in the North, doing provincial journalism.  Daniel—­I believe he is in London, but I’m not very likely to meet him.”