“Ah, it was a joke?” said Irene, not altogether pleased with Miss Bonnicastle’s facetiousness.  But the next moment, good humour coming to her help, she broke into merriment.

“That’s what she does,” said Olga, pointing to the walls.  “She’s awfully clever really, and she’ll make a great success with that sort of thing before long, I’m sure.  Look at that advertisement of Honey’s Castor Oil.  Isn’t the child’s face splendid?”

“Very clever indeed,” assented Irene, and laughed again, her cousin joining in her mirth.  Five minutes ago she had felt anything but hilarious; the impulse to gaiety came she knew not how, and she indulged it with a sense of relief.

“Are you doing the same sort of thing, Olga?”

“Wish I could.  I’ve a little work for a new fashion paper; have to fill in the heads and arms, and so on.  It isn’t high art, you know, but they pay me.”

“Why in the world do you do it? Why do you live in a place like this?”

“Oh, I like the life; on the whole.  It’s freedom; no society nonsense—­I beg your pardon, Irene——­”

“Please don’t.  I hope I’m not much in the way of society nonsense.  Sit down; I want to talk.  When did you see your mother?”

“Not for a long time,” answered Olga, her countenance falling.  “I sent her the new address when I came here, but she hasn’t been yet.”

“Why don’t you go to her?”

“No!  I’ve broken with that world.  I can’t make calls in Bryanston Square—­or anywhere else.  That’s all over.”

“Nonsense!”

“It isn’t nonsense!” exclaimed Olga, flushing angrily.  “Why do you come to interfere with me?  What right have you, Irene?  I’m old enough to live as I please.  I don’t come to criticise your life!”

Irene was startled into silence for a moment.  She met her cousin’s look, and so gravely, so kindly, that Olga turned away in shame.

“You and I used to be friends, and to have confidence in each other,” resumed Irene.  “Why can’t that come over again?  Couldn’t you tell me what it all means, dear?”

The other shook her head, keeping her eyes averted.

“My first reason for coming,” Irene pursued, “was to talk to you about your mother.  Do you know that she is very far from well?  My father speaks very seriously of her state of health.  Something is weighing on her mind, as anyone can see, and we think it can only be you—­your strange life, and your neglect of her.”

Olga shook her head.

“You’re mistaken, I know you are.”

“You know?  Then can you tell us how to be of use to her?  To speak plainly, my father fears the worst, if something isn’t done.”

With elbow on knee, and chin in hand, Olga sat brooding.  She had a dishevelled, wild appearance; her cheeks were hollow, her eyes and lips expressed a reckless mood.

“It is not on my account,” she let fall, abstractedly.