But it all depends upon----" He broke off, unable to command
his voice. A moment's silence, during which he stared at the woman
on the wall, and he could speak again. "I can't go alone. I can't do
--can't think of--anything seriously, whilst I am maddened by
solitude!"
Olga sat with her head bent. He drew nearer to her.
"It depends upon you. I want you for my companion--for my wife
----"
She looked him in the face--a strange, agitated, half-defiant
look.
"I don't think that is true! You don't want _me_----"
"You! Yes, you, Olga! And only you!"
"I don't believe it. You mean--any woman." Her voice all but
choked. "If that one"--she pointed to the wall--"could step
towards you, you would as soon have her. You would _rather_, because
she is more beautiful."
"Not in my eyes!" He seized her hand, and said, half laughing,
shaken with the moment's fever, "Come and stand beside her, and let
me see how the real living woman makes pale the ideal!"
Flushing, trembling at his touch, she rose. Her lips parted; she had
all but spoken; when there came a loud knock at the door of the
room. Their hands fell, and they gazed at each other in
perturbation.
"Silence!" whispered Otway. "No reply!"
He stepped softly to the door; silently he turned the key in the
lock. No sooner had he done so, than someone without tried the
handle; the door was shaken a little, and there sounded another
knock, loud, peremptory.
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