From Guildford Street, along the byways, he crossed
Tottenham Court Road, just rattling with its first traffic, crossed
Portland Place, still in its soundest sleep, and so onward till he
touched Bryanston Square. The trees were misty with half-unfolded
leafage birds twittered cheerily among the branches; but Piers
heeded not these things. He stood before the high narrow-fronted
house, which once he had entered as a guest, where never again would
he be suffered to pass the door. Irene was here, he supposed, but
could not be sure, for on the rare occasions when he saw Olga
Hannaford they did not speak of her cousin. Of the course her life
had taken, he knew nothing whatever. Here, in the chill bright
morning, he felt more a stranger to Irene than on the day, six years
ago, when with foolish timidity he ventured his useless call. She
was merely indifferent to him then; now she shrank from the sound of
his name.
On such a morning, a few weeks later, he pursued his walk in the
direction of Kensington, and passed along Queen's Gate. It was
between seven and eight o'clock. Nearing John Jacks house, he saw a
carriage at the door; it could of course be only the doctor's, and
he became sad in thinking of his kind old friend, for whom the last
days of life were made so hard. Just as he was passing, the door
opened, and a man, evidently a doctor, came quickly forth. With
movement as if he were here for this purpose, Otway ran up the
steps; the servant saw him, and waited with the door still open.
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