Even more than Irene's, he avoided Olga's
look, and walked on shamefaced.
The remaining days, until Miss Derwent departed, were to him a mere
blank of misery. Impossible to open a book, and sleep came only with
uttermost exhaustion. How he passed the hours, he knew not. Spying
at windows, listening for voices, creeping hither and thither in
torment of multiform ignominy, forcing speech when he longed to be
silent, not daring to break silence when his heart seemed bursting
with desire to utter itself--a terrible time. And Irene persevered
in her elder-sister attitude; she was kindness itself, but never
seemed to remark a strangeness in his look and manner. Once he found
courage to say that he would like to know Dr. Derwent; she replied
that her father was a very busy man, but that no doubt some
opportunity for their meeting would arise--and that was all. When
the moment came for leave-taking, Piers tried to put all his soul
into a look; but he failed, his eyes dropped, even as his tongue
faltered. And Irene Derwent was gone.
If, in the night that followed, a wish could have put an end to his
existence, Piers would have died. He saw no hope in living, and the
burden seemed intolerable. Love-anguish of one-and-twenty; we smile
at it, but it is anguish all the same, and may break or mould a
life.
CHAPTER VII
A week went by, and Piers was as far as ever from resuming his
regular laborious life.
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