"
"Easier!" echoed the girl. "She has done the most wonderful thing! I
admire her, and envy her strength of character."
The Doctor's eyes had fallen upon that crayon portrait which held
the place of honour on the drawing-room walls. Playing with
superstition, as does every man capable of high emotional life, he
was wont to see in the pictured countenance of his dead wife changes
of expression, correspondent with the mood in which he regarded it.
At one time the beloved features smiled upon him; at another they
were sad, or anxious. To-night, the eyes, the lips were so strongly
expressive of gladness that he felt startled as he gazed. A joy from
the years gone by suddenly thrilled him. He sat silent, too deeply
moved by memories for speech about the present. And when at length
he resumed talk with Olga, his voice was very gentle, his words all
kindliness. The girl had never known him so sympathetic with her.
On the morrow--it was Saturday--Olga received a letter from
Piers Otway, who said that he had something of great importance to
speak about, and must see her; could they not meet at the Campden
Hill House, it being inadvisable for him to call at Dr. Derwent's?
Either this afternoon or to-morrow would do, if Olga would appoint a
time.
She telegraphed, appointing this afternoon at three.
Half an hour before that, she entered the house, which was now
occupied only by a caretaker.
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