"
"Just because of that man?" Olga protested. "What does it matter?"
"You know well what it matters," he replied, with an unnatural
laugh.
"To me--nothing whatever."
"You try to think not. But the name will be secretly hateful to you
as long as you live."
"Oh! How can you say that! The name is yours, not his. Think how
long we knew you before we heard of him! I am telling the simple
truth. It is you I think of, when----"
He was drawing nearer to her, and again that strange, fixed look
came into his eyes.
"I wanted to ask you something," said Olga quickly. "Do sit down--
will you? Let us talk as we used to--you remember?"
He obeyed her, but kept his eyes on her face.
"What do you wish to ask, Olga?"
The name slipped from his tongue; he had not meant to use it, and
did not seem conscious of having done so.
"Have you seen old Mr. Jacks lately?"
"I saw him last night."
"Last night?" Her breath caught. "Had he anything--anything
interesting to say?"
"He is ill. I only sat with him for half an hour. I don't know what
it is. It doesn't keep him in bed; but he lies on a sofa, and looks
dreadfully ill, as if he suffered much pain."
"He told you nothing?"
Their eyes met.
"Nothing that greatly interested me," replied Piers heavily, with
the most palpable feint of carelessness. "He mentioned what of
course you know, that Arnold Jacks is not going to be married after
all.
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