“Don’t you wish to?” asked the other lightly.

“Oh, I’m not very anxious.  Daniel and I haven’t a great interest in each other, I’m afraid.  You haven’t seen him lately?”

“No, no,” Mrs. Hannaford answered, with an absent air.  “No—­not for a long time.  I have hoped to see an announcement of his book.”

“His book?—­Ah, I remember.  I fear we shall wait long for that.”

“But he really was working at it,” said Mrs. Hannaford, bending forward with a peculiar earnestness.  “When he last spoke to me about it, he said the material grew so on his hands.  And then, there is the expense of publication.  Such a volume, really well illustrated, must cost much to produce, and the author would have to bear——­”

Piers was smiling oddly; she broke off, and observed him, as if the smile pained her.

“Let us have faith,” said Otway.  “Daniel is a clever man no doubt, and may do something yet.”

Mrs. Hannaford abruptly changed the subject, returning to Piers’ prospects.  They talked for half an hour, the lady’s eyes occasionally turning towards the door, and Otway sometimes losing himself as he glanced at the crayon portrait.  He was thinking of a reluctant withdrawal, when the door opened.  He heard a soft rustle, turned his head, and rose.

It was Irene!  Irene in all the grace of her earlier day, and with maturer beauty; Irene with her light step, her bravely balanced head, her smile of admirable courtesy, her golden voice.  Otway knew not what she said to him; something frank, cordial, welcoming.  For an instant he had held her hand, and felt its coolness thrill him to his heart of hearts; he had bent before her, mutely worshipping.  His brain was on fire with the old passion newly kindled.  He spoke, he was beginning to converse; the room grew real again; he was aware once more of Mrs. Hannaford’s presence, of a look she had fixed upon him.  A look half amused, half compassionate; he answered it with a courageous smile.

Miss Derwent was in her happiest mood; impossible to be kinder and friendlier in that merry way of hers.  Scarce having expected to meet her, still keeping in his mind the anguish of that calamitous and shameful night three years ago when he fled before her grave reproof, Piers beheld her and listened to her with such a sense of passionate gratitude that he feared lest some crazy word should escape him.  That Irene remembered, no look or word of hers suggested; unless, indeed, the perfection of her kindness aimed at assuring him that the past was wholly past.  She made inquiry about his father’s health; she spoke of his life at Odessa, and was full of interest when he sketched his projects.  To crown all, she said, with her eyes smiling upon him: 

“My father would so like to know you; could you dine with us one evening before you go?”

Piers declared his absolute freedom for a week to come.

“Suppose, then, we say Thursday?  An old friend of ours will be with us, whom you may like to meet.”