Otway is coming to England again?"
"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.
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