Otway felt how much less impressive was the account he had to
give of himself, but his new friend talked with such perfect
simplicity, so entirely as a good-humoured man of the world, that
any feeling of subordination was impossible.
"Poltava I know pretty well," he said gaily. "I've been more than
once at the July fair, buying wool. At Kharkoff too, on the same
business."
They conversed for a couple of hours, at first amusing themselves
with the rhetoric and arguments of the red-necked man. Korolevitch
was a devoted student of poetry, and discovered not without surprise
the Englishman's familiarity with that branch of Russian literature.
He heard with great interest the few words Otway let fall about his
father, who had known so many Russian exiles. In short, they got
along together admirably, and, on parting for the night, promised
each other to meet again in London some ten days hence.
When he had entered his bedroom, and turned the key in the lock,
Piers stood musing over this event. Of a sudden there came into his
mind the inexplicable impulse which brought him to this hotel,
rather than to that recommended by the Liverpool acquaintance. An
odd incident, indeed. It helped a superstitious tendency of Otway's
mind, the disposition he had, spite of obstacle and misfortune, to
believe that destiny was his friend.
CHAPTER XXX
At home again, Piers wrote to Olga, the greater part of the letter
being occupied with an account of what had happened at Liverpool.
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