Why not? You said
it yourself the other day, but I could not decide. Now I have
decided. I pay you a visit; you receive me privately--can you not?
We talk, and all is settled!"
Olga thought for a moment, and assented. A few minutes afterwards,
she was roiling in a cab towards Bryanston Square.
On Monday evening, Piers received a note from Olga. It ran thus:
"I warned you not to trust me. It is all over now; I have, in your
own words, 'put an end to it.' We could have given no happiness to
each other. Miss Bonnicastle will explain. Good-bye!"
He went at once to Great Portland Street. Miss Bonnicastle knew
nothing, but looked anxious when she had seen the note and heard its
explanation.
"We must wait till the morning," she said. "Don't worry. It's just
what one might have expected."
Don't worry! Piers had no wink of sleep that night. At post-time in
the morning he was at Miss Bonnicastle's, but no news arrived. He
went to business; the day passed without news; he returned to Great
Portland Street, and there waited for the last postal delivery. It
brought the expected letter; Olga announced her marriage that
morning to Mr. Florio.
"It's better than I feared," said Miss Bonnicastle. "Now go home to
bed, and sleep like a philosopher."
Good advice, but not of much profit to one racked and distraught
with amorous frenzy, with disappointment sharp as death.
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