It could have been no
trifling episode in her life, whatever the story; Irene was not of
the women who yield their hands in jest, in pique, in lighthearted
ignorance. The change visible in her was more, he fancied, than
could be due to the mere lapse of time; during her silences, she had
the look of one familiar with mental conflict, perhaps of one whose
pride had suffered an injury. The one or two glances which he
ventured whilst she was talking with the man who succeeded to his
place beside her, perceived a graver countenance, a reserve such as
she had not used with him; and of this insubstantial solace he made
a sort of hope which winged the sleepless hours till daybreak.
He had permission to call upon Mrs. Borisoff at times alien to
polite routine. Thus, when nearly a week had passed, he sought her
company at midday, and found her idling over a book, her seat by a
window which viewed the Thames and the broad Embankment with its
plane trees, and London beyond the water, picturesque in squalid
hugeness through summer haze and the sagging smoke of chimneys
numberless. She gave a languid hand, pointed to a chair, gazed at
him with embarrassing fixity.
"I don't know about the Castle," were her first words. "Perhaps I
shall give it up."
"You are not serious?"
Piers spoke and looked in dismay; and still she kept her heavy eyes
on him.
"What does it matter to _you_?" she asked carelessly.
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