It still rained; it
had been gloomy for several days. Looking at the heavy sky above the
gloomy street, Olga had a sense of wasted life. She asked herself
whether it would not have been better, on the decline of her
love-fever, to go back into the so-called respectable world, share
her mother's prosperity, make the most of her personal attractions,
and marry as other girls did--if anyone invited her. She was doing
no good; all the experience to be had in a life of mild Bohemianism
was already tasted, and found rather insipid. An artist she would
never become; probably she would never even support herself. To
imagine herself really dependent on her own efforts, was to sink
into misery and fear. The time had come for a new step, a new
beginning, yet all possibilities looked so vague.
A knock at the door. She opened, and saw Piers Otway.
If they had been longing to meet, instead of scarcely ever giving a
thought to each other, they could not have clasped hands with more
warmth. They gazed eagerly into each other's eyes, and seemed too
much overcome for ordinary words of greeting. Then Olga saw that
Otway looked nothing like so well as when on his visit to England
some couple of years ago. He, in turn, was surprised at the change
in Olga's features; the bloom of girlhood had vanished; she was
handsome, striking, but might almost have passed for a married woman
of thirty.
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