They had walked nearly a hundred yards when
she turned her head and spoke.
"Can't you suggest some way for me to earn my living? I mean it. I
must find something."
"Have you spoken to your uncle about it?" asked Piers mechanically.
"No; it's difficult. If I could go to him with something definite."
"Have you spoken to your cousin?"
Olga delayed an instant, and answered with an embarrassed
abruptness.
"She's gone to Paris."
Before Piers could recover from his surprise, she had waved to an
empty hansom driving past.
"Think about it," she added, "and write to me. I must do something.
This life of loneliness and idleness is unbearable."
And Piers thought; to little purpose, for his mind was once more
turned to Irene, and it cost him a painful effort to dwell upon
Olga's circumstances. He postponed writing to her, until shame
compelled him, and the letter he at length despatched seemed so
empty, so futile, that he could not bear to think of her reading it.
With astonishment he received an answer so gratefully worded that it
moved his heart. She would reflect on the suggestions he had made;
moreover, as he advised, she would take counsel frankly with the
Doctor; and, whatever was decided, he should hear at once. She
counted on him as a friend, a true friend; in truth, she had no
other. He must continue to write to her, but not often, not more
than once a fortnight or so.
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