"I'm sure I don't know," answered his wife. "Something with blood on
it, I dare say"
Hannaford uttered a crowing laugh of scorn and amusement.
Through the afternoon Piers Otway sat in the garden with the ladies.
After tea he again went for a walk with Olga and Irene. After dinner
he lingered so significantly that Mrs. Hannaford invited him to the
drawing-room, and with unconcealed pleasure he followed her thither.
When at length he had taken his leave for the night, there was a
short silence, Mrs. Hannaford glancing from her daughter to Irene,
and smiling reflectively.
"Mr. Otway seems to be taking a holiday," she said at length.
"Yes, so it seemed to me," fell from Olga, who caught her mother's
eye.
"It'll do him good," was Miss Derwent's remark. She exchanged no
glance with the others, and seemed to be thinking of something else.
Next morning, though the sun shone brilliantly, she did not appear
in the garden before breakfast. From a window above, eyes were
watching, watching in vain. At the meal Irene was her wonted self,
but she did not enter into conversation with Otway. The young man
had grown silent again.
Heavily he went up to his room. Mechanically he seated himself at
the table. But, instead of opening books, he propped his head upon
his hands, and so sat for a long, long time.
When thoughts began to shape themselves (at first he did not think,
but lived in a mere tumult of emotions) he recalled Irene's
question: what career had he really in view? A dull, respectable
clerkship, with two or three hundred a year, and the chance of
dreary progress by seniority till it was time to retire on a decent
pension? That, he knew, was what the Civil Service meant.
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