"A queer place, isn't it?" she said, laughing, as Piers cast a
glance round the room.
"Is this your work?" he asked, pointing to the posters.
"No, no! Mine isn't for exhibition. It hides itself--with the
modesty of supreme excellence!"
Again they looked at each other; Olga pointed to a chair, herself
became seated, and explained the conditions of her life here.
Bending forward, his hands folded between his knees, Otway listened
with a face on which trouble began to reassert itself after the
emotion of their meeting.
"So you have really begun business at last?" said Olga.
"Yes. Rather hopefully, too."
"You don't look hopeful, somehow."
"Oh, that's nothing. Moncharmont has scraped together a fair
capital, and as for me, well, a friend has come to my help, I
mustn't say who it is. Yes, things look promising enough, for a
start. Already I've seen an office in the City, which I think I
shall take. I shall decide to-morrow, and then--_avos_!"
"What does that mean?"
"A common word in Russian. It means 'Fire away.'"
"I must remember it," said Olga, laughing. "It'll make a change from
English and French slang--_Avos_!"
There was a silence longer than they wished. Olga broke it by asking
abruptly:
"Have you seen my mother?"
"Not yet."
"I'm afraid she's not well."
"Then why do you keep away from her?" said Piers, with good-humoured
directness.
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