Otway. All this shall be explained, dear, when we are alone
again."
On entering the sitting-room Irene found it harder to preserve a
natural demeanour than at her meeting with the visitor a couple of
hours ago. Only when she had heard him speak and in just the same
voice as during their walk was she able to turn frankly towards him.
His look had not changed. Impossible to divine the thoughts hidden
by his smile; he bore himself with perfect control.
At table all was cheerfulness. Speaking of things Russian, Irene
recalled her winter in Finland, which she had so greatly enjoyed.
"I remember," said Otway, "you had just returned when I met you for
the first time."
It was said with a peculiar intonation, which fell agreeably on the
listener's ear; a note familiar, in the permitted degree, yet
touchingly respectful; a world of emotion subdued to graceful
friendliness. Irene passed over the reminiscence with a light word
or two, and went on to gossip merely of trifles.
"Do you like caviare, Mr. Otway?"
"Except perhaps that supplied by the literary censor," was his
laughing reply.
"Now I am _intriguee_. Please explain."
"We call caviare the bits blacked out in our newspapers and
periodicals."
"Unpalatable enough!" laughed Irene. "How angry that would make me!"
"I got used to it," said Piers, "and thought it rather good fun
sometimes. After all, a wise autocrat might well prohibit newspapers
altogether, don't you think? They have done good, I suppose, but
they are just as likely to do harm.
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