When he was weary, Olga's opportunity came.
"There is something I _must_ say to you----"
Her arms hung lax, her head drooped forward, she looked at him from
under her brows.
"I have suffered so much--oh, I have suffered! I have longed for
this moment. Will you say--that you forgive me?"
"My dear Mrs. Florio"--Piers began with good-natured
expostulation, a sort of forced bluffness; but she would not hear
him.
"Not that name! Not from _you_. There's no harm; you won't--you
can't misunderstand me, such old friends as we are. I want you to
call me by my own name, and to make me feel that we are friends
still--that you can really forgive me."
"There is nothing in the world to forgive," he insisted, in the same
tone. "Of course we are friends! How could we be anything else?"
"I behaved infamously to you! I can't think how I had the heart to
do it!"
Piers was tortured with nervousness. Had her voice and manner
declared insincerity, posing, anything of that kind, he would have
found the situation much more endurable; but Olga had tears in her
eyes, and not the tears of an actress; her tones had recovered
something of their old quality, and reminded him painfully of the
time when Mrs. Hannaford was dying. She held a hand to him, her pale
face besought his compassion.
"Come now, let us talk in the old way, as you wish," he said, just
pressing her fingers.
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