Later in the evening, he found himself beside Mrs. Hannaford in a corner of the drawing-room.  He had hoped to speak a little with Miss Derwent, in semi-privacy, but of that there seemed no chance; enough that he had her so long before his eyes.  Nor did he venture to speak of her to her aunt, though with difficulty subduing the desire.  He knew that Mrs. Hannaford understood what was in his mind, and he felt pleased to have her for a silent confidante.  She, not altogether at ease in this company, was glad to talk to Otway of everyday things; she mentioned her daughter, who was understood to be living elsewhere for the convenience of artistic studies.

“I hope you will be able to meet Olga before you go.  She shuts herself up from us a great deal—­something like you used to do at Ewell, you remember.”

“I do, only too well.  Why mayn’t I go and call on her?”

Mrs. Hannaford shook her head, vaguely, trying to smile.

“She must have her own way, like all artists.  If she succeeds, she will come amongst us again.”

“I know that spirit,” said Piers, “and perhaps it’s the right one.  Give her my good wishes—­they will do no harm.”

The image of Olga Hannaford was distinct before his mind’s eye, but did not touch his emotions.  He thought with little interest of her embarking on an artist’s career, and had small belief in her chances of success.  Under the spell of Irene, he felt coldly critical towards all other women; every image of feminine charm paled and grew remote when hers was actually before him, and it would have cost a great effort of mind to assure himself that he had not felt precisely thus ever since the days at Ewell.  The truth was, of course, that though imagination could always restore Irene’s supremacy, and constantly did so, though his intellectual being never failed from allegiance to her, his blood had been at the mercy of any face sufficiently alluring.  So it would be again, little as he could now believe it.

Before he departed, he had his wish of a few minutes’ talk with her.  The words exchanged were insignificant.  Piers had nothing ready to his tongue but commonplace, and Miss Derwent answered as became her.  As he left the room he suffered a flush of anger, the natural revolt of every being who lives by emotion against the restraints of polite intercourse.  At such moments one feels the bonds wrought for themselves by civilised mankind; commonly accepted without consciousness of voluntary or involuntary restraint.  In revolt, he broke through these trammels of self-subduing nature, saw himself free man before her free woman, in some sphere of the unembarrassed impulse, and uttered what was in him, pleaded with all his life, conquered by vital energy.  Only when he had walked back to the hotel was he capable of remembering that Irene, in taking leave, had spoken the kindest wishes for his future, assuredly with more than the common hostess-note.  Dr. Derwent, too, had held his hand with a pleasant grip, saying good things.  It was better than nothing, and he felt humanly grateful amid the fire that tortured him.