A few days after her return, Irene left home in the morning to make an
unceremonious call. She was driven to Great Portland Street and
alighted before a shop, which bore the number of the house she sought.
Having found the private entrance--a door that stood wide open--and
after ringing once or twice without drawing anyone's attention, she
began to ascend the uncarpeted stairs. At that moment there came down a
young woman humming an air; a cheery-faced, solidly-built damsel,
dressed with attention to broad effect in colours which were then--or
recently had been--known as "aesthetic." With some diffidence, for the
encounter was not of a kind common in her experience, Irene asked this
person for a direction to the rooms occupied by Miss Hannaford.
"Oh, she's my chum," was the genial reply. "Top floor, front. You'll
find her there."
With thanks the visitor passed on, but had not climbed half a dozen
steps when the clear-sounding voice caused her to stop.
"Beg your pardon and all that kind of thing, but would you mind telling
her that Tomkins is huffy? I forgot to mention it before I came out.
Thanks, awfully."
Puzzled, if not disconcerted, Miss Derwent reached the top floor and
knocked. A voice she recognised bade her enter. She found herself in a
bare-floored room, furnished with a table, a chair or two, and a divan,
on the walls a strange exhibition of designs in glaring colours which
seemed to be studies for street posters. At the table, bending over a
drawing-board, sat Olga Hannaford, her careless costume and the
disorder of her hair suggesting that she had only just got up. She
recognised her visitor with some embarrassment.
"Irene--I am so glad--I really am ashamed--we keep such hours
here--please don't mind!"
"Not I, indeed! What is there to mind? I spoke to someone downstairs
who gave me a message for you. I was to say that Tomkins was huffy. Do
you understand?"
Olga bit her lip in vexation, and to restrain a laugh.
"No, that's too bad! But just like her. That was the girl I live
with--Miss Bonnicastle. She's very nice really--not a bit of harm in
her; but she will play these silly practical jokes."
"Ah, it was a joke?" said Irene, not altogether pleased with Miss
Bonnicastle's facetiousness. But the next moment, good humour coming to
her help, she broke into merriment.
"That's what she does," said Olga, pointing to the walls. "She's
awfully clever really, and she'll make a great success with that sort
of thing before long, I'm sure. Look at that advertisement of Honey's
Castor Oil. Isn't the child's face splendid?"
"Very clever indeed," assented Irene, and laughed again, her cousin
joining in her mirth. Five minutes ago she had felt anything but
hilarious; the impulse to gaiety came she knew not how, and she
indulged it with a sense of relief.
"Are you doing the same sort of thing, Olga?"
"Wish I could. I've a little work for a new fashion paper; have to fill
in the heads and arms, and so on. It isn't high art, you know, but they
pay me."
"Why in the world do you do it? _Why_ do you live in a place like this?"
"Oh, I like the life; on the whole. It's freedom; no society
nonsense--I beg your pardon, Irene----"
"Please don't. I hope I'm not much in the way of society nonsense. Sit
down; I want to talk. When did you see your mother?"
"Not for a long time," answered Olga, her countenance falling. "I sent
her the new address when I came here, but she hasn't been yet."
"Why don't you go to her?"
"No! I've broken with that world. I can't make calls in Bryanston
Square--or anywhere else. That's all over."
"Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense!" exclaimed Olga, flushing angrily. "Why do you come
to interfere with me? What right have you, Irene? I'm old enough to
live as I please. I don't come to criticise your life!"
Irene was startled into silence for a moment. She met her cousin's
look, and so gravely, so kindly, that Olga turned away in shame.
"You and I used to be friends, and to have confidence in each other,"
resumed Irene. "Why can't that come over again? Couldn't you tell me
what it all means, dear?"
The other shook her head, keeping her eyes averted.
"My first reason for coming," Irene pursued, "was to talk to you about
your mother. Do you know that she is very far from well? My father
speaks very seriously of her state of health. Something is weighing on
her mind, as anyone can see, and we think it can only be _you_--your
strange life, and your neglect of her."
Olga shook her head.
"You're mistaken, I know you are."
"You know? Then can you tell us how to be of use to her? To speak
plainly, my father fears the worst, if something isn't done."
With elbow on knee, and chin in hand, Olga sat brooding. She had a
dishevelled, wild appearance; her cheeks were hollow, her eyes and lips
expressed a reckless mood.
"It is not on my account," she let fall, abstractedly.
"Can you help her, Olga?"
"No one can help her," was the reply in the same dreamy tone.
Then followed a long silence. Irene gazed at one of the flaring
grotesques on the wall, but did not see it.
"May I ask you a question about your own affairs?" she said at length,
very gently. "It isn't for curiosity. I have a deeper interest."
"Of course you may ask Irene. I'm behaving badly to you, but I don't
mean it. I'm miserable--that's what it comes to."
"I can see that, dear. Am I right in thinking that your engagement has
been broken off?"
"I'll tell you; you shall know the whole truth. It isn't broken; yet
I'm sure it'll never come to anything. I don't think I want it to. He
behaves so strangely. You know we were to have been married after the
twelvemonth, with mother's consent. When the time drew near, I saw he
didn't wish it. He said that after all he was afraid it would be a
miserable marriage for me. The trouble is, he has no character, no
will. He cares for me a great deal; and that's just why he won't marry
me. He'll never do anything--in art, I mean. We should have to live on
mother's money, and he doesn't like that. If we had been married
straight away, as I wanted, two years ago, it would have been all
right. It's too late now."
"And this, you feel, is ruining your life?"
"I'm troubled about it, but more on his account than mine. I'll tell
you, Irene, I want to break off, for good and all, and I'm afraid. It's
a hard thing to do."
"Now I understand you. Do you think"--Irene added in another
tone--"that it's well to be what they call in love with the man one
marries?"
"Think? Of course I do!"
"Many people doubt it. We are told that French marriages are often
happier than English, because they are arranged with a practical view,
by experienced people."
"It depends," replied Olga, with a half-disdainful smile, "what one
calls happiness. I, for one, don't want a respectable, plodding,
money-saving married life. I'm not fit for it. Of course some people
are."
"Then, you could never bring yourself to marry a man you merely
liked--in a friendly way?"
"I think it horrible, hideous!" was the excited reply. "And yet"--her
voice dropped--"it may not be so for some women. I judge only by
myself."
"I suspect, Olga, that some people are never in love--never could be in
that state."
"I daresay, poor things!"
Irene, though much in earnest, was moved to laugh.
"After all, you know," she said, "they have less worry."
"Of course they have, and live more useful lives, if it comes to that."
"A useful life isn't to be despised, you know."
Olga looked at her cousin; so fixedly that Irene had to turn away, and
in a moment spoke as though changing the subject.
"Have you heard that Mr. Otway is coming to England again?"
"What!" cried Olga with sudden astonishment. "You are thinking of
_him_--of Piers Otway?"
Irene became the colour of the rose; her eyes flashed with annoyance.
"How extraordinary you are, Olga! As if one couldn't mention anyone
without that sort of meaning! I spoke of Mr. Otway by pure accident. He
had nothing whatever to do with what I was saying before."
Olga sank into dulness again, murmuring, "I beg your pardon." When a
minute had elapsed in silence, she added, without looking up, "He was
dreadfully in love with you, poor fellow. I suppose he has got over it."
An uncertain movement, a wandering look, and Miss Derwent rose. She
stood before one of the rough-washed posters, seeming to admire it;
Olga eyed her askance, with curiosity.
"I know only one thing," Irene exclaimed abruptly, without turning.
"It's better not to think too much about all that."
"How _can_ one think too much of it?" said the other.
"Very easily, I'm afraid," rejoined the other, her eyes still on the
picture.
"It's the only thing in life _worth_ thinking about!"
"You astonish me. We'll agree to differ--Olga dear, come and see us in
the old way. Come and dine this evening; we shall be alone."
But the unkempt girl was not to be persuaded, and Irene presently took
her leave. The conversation had perturbed her; she went away in a very
unwonted frame of mind, beset with troublesome fancies and misgivings.
Olga's state seemed to her thoroughly unwholesome, to be regarded as a
warning; it was evidently contagious; it affected the imagination with
morbid allurement. Morbid, surely; Irene would not see it in any other
light. She felt the need of protecting herself against thoughts which
had never until now given her a moment's uneasiness. Happily she was
going to lunch with her friend Mrs. Borisoff, anything but a
sentimental person. She began to discern a possibility of taking Helen
Borisoff into her confidence. With someone she _must_ talk freely; Olga
would only harm her; in Helen she might find the tonic of sound sense
which her mood demanded.
Olga Hannaford, meanwhile, finished her toilet, and, having had no
breakfast, went out a little after midday to the restaurant in Oxford
Street where she often lunched. Her walking-dress showed something of
the influence of Miss Bonnicastle; it was more picturesque, more likely
to draw the eye, than her costume of former days. She walked, too, with
an air of liberty which marked her spiritual progress. Women glanced at
her and looked away with a toss of the head--or its more polite
equivalent. Men observed her with a smile of interest; "A fine girl,"
was their comment, or something to that effect.
Strolling westward after her meal, intending to make a circuit by way
of Edgware Road, she was near the Marble Arch when a man who had caught
sight of her from the top of an omnibus alighted and hastened in her
direction. At the sound of his voice, Olga paused, smiling, and gave
him her hand with friendliness. He was an Italian, his name Florio;
they had met several times at a house which she visited with Miss
Bonnicastle. Mr. Florio had a noticeable visage, very dark of tone,
eyes which at one time seemed to glow with noble emotion, and at
another betrayed excessive shrewdness; heavy eyebrows and long black
lashes; a nose of classical perfection; large mouth with thick and very
red lips. He was dressed in approved English fashion, as a man of
leisure, wore a massive watchguard across his buff summer waistcoat,
and carried a silver-headed cane.
"You are taking a little walk," he said, with a very slight foreign
accent. "If you will let me walk with you a little way I shall be
honoured. The Park? A delightful day for the Park! Let us walk over the
grass, as we may do in this free country. I have something to tell you,
Miss Hannaford."
"That's nice of you, Mr. Florio. So few people tell one anything one
doesn't know; but yours is sure to be real news."
"It is--I assure you it is. But, first of all, I was thinking on the
'bus--I often ride on the 'bus, it gives one ideas--I was thinking what
a pity they do not use the back of the 'bus driver to display
advertisements. It is a loss of space. Those men are so beautifully
broad, and one looks at their backs, and there is nothing, nothing to
see but an ugly coat. I shall mention my little scheme to a friend of
mine, a very practical man."
Olga laughed merrily.
"Oh, you are too clever, Mr. Florio!"
"Oh, I have my little ideas. Do you know, I've just come back from
Italy."
"I envy you--I mean, I envy you for having been there."
"Ah, that is your mistake, dear Miss Hannaford! That is the mistake of
the romantic English young lady. Italy? Yes, there is a blue sky--not
always. Yes, there are ruins that interest, if one is educated. And,
there is misery, misery! Italy is a poor country, poor, poor, poor,
poor." He intoned the words as if speaking his own language. "And
poverty is the worst thing in the world. You make an illusion for
yourself, Miss Hannaford. For a holiday when one's rich, yes, Italy is
not bad--though there is fever, and there are thieves--oh, thieves! Of
course the man who is poor will steal--_ecco_! It amuses me, when the
English talk of Italy."
"But you are proud of--of your memories?"
"Memories!" Mr. Florio laughed a whole melody. "One is not proud of
former riches when one has become a beggar. It is you, the English, who
can be proud of the past, because you can be proud of the present. You
have grown free, free, free! Rich, rich, rich, ah!"
Olga laughed.
"I am sorry to say that I have not grown rich."
He bent his gaze upon her, and it glowed with tender amorousness.
"You remind me--I have something to tell you. In Italy, not everybody
is quite poor. For example, my grandfather, at Bologna. I have made a
visit to my grandfather. He likes me; he admires me because I have
intelligence. He will not live very long, that poor grandfather."
Olga glanced at him, and met the queer calculating melancholy of his
fine eyes.
"Miss Hannaford, if some day I am rich, I shall of course live in
England. In what other country can one live? I shall have a house in
the West End; I shall have a carriage; I shall nationalise--you say
naturalise?--myself, and be an Englishman, not a beggarly Italian. And
that will not be long. The poor old grandfather is weak, weak; he
decays, he loses his mind; but he has made his testament, oh yes!"
The girl's look wandered about the grassy space, she was uneasy.
"Shall we turn and walk back, Mr. Florio?"
"If you wish, but slowly, slowly. I am so happy to have met you. Your
company is a delight to me, Miss Hannaford. Can we not meet more often?"
"I am always glad to see you," she answered nervously.
"Good!--A thought occurs to me." He pointed to the iron fence they were
approaching. "Is not that a waste? Why does not the public
authority--what do you call it?--make money of these railings? Imagine!
One attaches advertisements to the rail, metal plates, of course
artistically designed, not to spoil the Park. They might swing in the
wind as it blows, and perhaps little bells might ring, to attract
attention. A good idea, is it not?"
"A splendid idea," Olga answered, with a laugh.
"Ah! England is a great country! But, Miss Hannaford, there is one
thing in which the Italian is not inferior to the Englishman. May I say
what that is?"
"There are many things, I am sure----"
"But there is one thing--that is Love!"
Olga walked on, head bent, and Florio enveloped her in his gaze.
"To-day I say no more, Miss Hannaford. I had something to tell you, and
I have told it. When I have something more to tell we shall meet--oh, I
am sure we shall meet."
"You are staying in England for some time?" said Olga, as if in
ordinary conversation.
"For a little time; I come, I go. I have, you know, my affairs, my
business. How is your friend, the admirable artist, the charming Miss
Bonnicastle?"
"Oh, very well, always well."
"Yes, the English ladies they have wonderful health--I admire them; but
there is one I admire most of all."
A few remarks more, of like tenor, and they drew near again to the
Marble Arch. With bows and compliments and significant looks, Mr.
Florio walked briskly away in search of an omnibus.
Olga, her eyes cast down as she turned homeward, was not aware that
someone who had held her in sight for a long time grew gradually near,
until he stepped to her side. It was Mr. Kite. He looked at her with a
melancholy smile on his long, lank face, and, when at length the girl
saw him, took off his shabby hat respectfully. Olga nodded and walked
on without speaking. Kite accompanying her.