You haven't seen him lately?"
"No, no," Mrs. Hannaford answered, with an absent air. "No--not
for a long time. I have hoped to see an announcement of his book."
"His book?--Ah, I remember. I fear we shall wait long for that."
"But he really was working at it," said Mrs. Hannaford, bending
forward with a peculiar earnestness. "When he last spoke to me about
it, he said the material grew so on his hands. And then, there is
the expense of publication. Such a volume, really well illustrated,
must cost much to produce, and the author would have to bear----"
Piers was smiling oddly; she broke off, and observed him, as if the
smile pained her.
"Let us have faith," said Otway. "Daniel is a clever man no doubt,
and may do something yet."
Mrs. Hannaford abruptly changed the subject, returning to Piers'
prospects. They talked for half an hour, the lady's eyes
occasionally turning towards the door, and Otway sometimes losing
himself as he glanced at the crayon portrait. He was thinking of a
reluctant withdrawal, when the door opened. He heard a soft rustle,
turned his head, and rose.
It was Irene! Irene in all the grace of her earlier day, and with
maturer beauty; Irene with her light step, her bravely balanced
head, her smile of admirable courtesy, her golden voice. Otway knew
not what she said to him; something frank, cordial, welcoming. For
an instant he had held her hand, and felt its coolness thrill him to
his heart of hearts; he had bent before her, mutely worshipping.
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