“What!” cried Olga with sudden astonishment.  “You are thinking of him—­of Piers Otway?”

Irene became the colour of the rose; her eyes flashed with annoyance.

“How extraordinary you are, Olga!  As if one couldn’t mention anyone without that sort of meaning!  I spoke of Mr. Otway by pure accident.  He had nothing whatever to do with what I was saying before.”

Olga sank into dulness again, murmuring, “I beg your pardon.”  When a minute had elapsed in silence, she added, without looking up, “He was dreadfully in love with you. poor fellow.  I suppose he has got over it.”

An uncertain movement, a wandering look, and Miss Derwent rose.  She stood before one of the rough-washed posters, seeming to admire it; Olga eyed her askance, with curiosity.

“I know only one thing,” Irene exclaimed abruptly, without turning.  “It’s better not to think too much about all that.”

“How can one think too much of it?” said the other.

“Very easily, I’m afraid,” rejoined the other, her eyes still on the picture.

“It’s the only thing in life worth thinking about!”

“You astonish me.  We’ll agree to differ—­Olga dear, come and see us in the old way.  Come and dine this evening; we shall be alone.”

But the unkempt girl was not to be persuaded, and Irene presently took her leave.  The conversation had perturbed her; she went away in a very unwonted frame of mind, beset with troublesome fancies and misgivings.  Olga’s state seemed to her thoroughly unwholesome, to be regarded as a warning; it was evidently contagious; it affected the imagination with morbid allurement.  Morbid, surely; Irene would not see it in any other light.  She felt the need of protecting herself against thoughts which had never until now given her a moment’s uneasiness.  Happily she was going to lunch with her friend Mrs. Borisoff, anything but a sentimental person.  She began to discern a possibility of taking Helen Borisoff into her confidence.  With someone she must talk freely; Olga would only harm her; in Helen she might find the tonic of sound sense which her mood demanded.

Olga Hannaford, meanwhile, finished her toilet, and, having had no breakfast, went out a little after midday to the restaurant in Oxford Street where she often lunched.  Her walking-dress showed something of the influence of Miss Bonnicastle; it was more picturesque, more likely to draw the eye, than her costume of former days.  She walked, too, with an air of liberty which marked her spiritual progress.  Women glanced at her and looked away with a toss of the head—­or its more polite equivalent.  Men observed her with a smile of interest; “A fine girl,” was their comment, or something to that effect.