They entered.
Still the oppressive atmosphere of perfumes. Left for a few minutes
in a little drawing-room, or boudoir, Piers stood marvelling at the
ingenuity which had packed so much furniture and bric-tate-brac, so
many pictures, so much drapery, into so small a space. He longed to
throw open the window; he could not sit still in this odour-laden
hothouse, where the very flowers were burdensome by excess. When
Olga reappeared, she was gorgeous in flowing tea-gown; her tawny
hair hung low in artful profusion; her neck and arms were bare, her
feet brilliantly slippered.
"Ah! How good, how good, it is to sit down and talk to you once
more!--Do you like my room?"
"You have made yourself very comfortable," replied Otway, striking a
note as much as possible in contrast to that of his hostess. "Some
of these drawings are your own work, no doubt?"
"Yes, some of them," she answered languidly. "Do you remember that
pastel? Ah, surely you do--from the old days at Ewell!"
"Of course!--That is a portrait of your husband?" he added,
indicating a head on a little easel.
"Yes--idealised!"
She laughed and put the subject away. Then tea was brought in, and
after pouring it, Olga grew silent. Resolute to talk, Piers had the
utmost difficulty in finding topics, but he kept up an everyday sort
of chat, postponing as long as possible the conversation foreboded
by his companion's face.
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