Romantic lovers are not the ancestry of
noblest lines.
And if--as might well be--his love were defeated, fruitless,
what end in the vast maze of things would his anguish serve?
CHAPTER XXXIV
After his day's work, he had spent an hour among the pictures at
Burlington House. He was lingering before an exquisite landscape,
unwilling to change this atmosphere of calm for the roaring street,
when a voice timidly addressed him:
"Mr. Otway!"
How altered! The face was much, much older, and in some
indeterminable way had lost its finer suggestions. At her best, Olga
Hannaford had a distinction of feature, a singularity of emotional
expression, which made her beautiful in Olga Florio the lines of
visage were far less subtle, and classed her under an inferior type.
Transition from maidenhood to what is called the matronly had been
too rapid; it was emphasised by her costume, which cried aloud in
its excess of modish splendour.
"How glad I am to see you again!" she sighed tremorously, pressing
his hand with fervour, gazing at him with furtive directness. "Are
you living in England now?"
Piers gave an account of himself. He was a little embarrassed but
quite unagitated. A sense of pity averted his eyes after the first
wondering look.
"Will you--may I venture--can you spare the time to come and
have tea with me? My carriage is waiting--I am quite alone--I
only looked in for a few minutes, to rest my mind after a lunch
with, oh, such tiresome people!"
His impulse was to refuse, at all costs to refuse.
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