at Ewell, you
remember."

"I do, only too well. Why mayn't I go and call on her?"

Mrs. Hannaford shook her head, vaguely, trying to smile.

"She must have her own way, like all artists. If she succeeds, she will
come amongst us again."

"I know that spirit," said Piers, "and perhaps it's the right one. Give
her my good wishes--they will do no harm."

The image of Olga Hannaford was distinct before his mind's eye, but did
not touch his emotions. He thought with little interest of her
embarking on an artist's career, and had small belief in her chances of
success. Under the spell of Irene, he felt coldly critical towards all
other women; every image of feminine charm paled and grew remote when
hers was actually before him, and it would have cost a great effort of
mind to assure himself that he had not felt precisely thus ever since
the days at Ewell. The truth was, of course, that though imagination
could always restore Irene's supremacy, and constantly did so, though
his intellectual being never failed from allegiance to her, his blood
had been at the mercy of any face sufficiently alluring. So it would be
again, little as he could now believe it.

Before he departed, he had his wish of a few minutes' talk with her.
The words exchanged were insignificant. Piers had nothing ready to his
tongue but commonplace, and Miss Derwent answered as became her. As he
left the room he suffered a flush of anger, the natural revolt of every
being who lives by emotion against the restraints of polite
intercourse. At such moments one _feels_ the bonds wrought for
themselves by civilised mankind; commonly accepted without
consciousness of voluntary or involuntary restraint. In revolt, he
broke through these trammels of self-subduing nature, saw himself free
man before her free woman, in some sphere of the unembarrassed impulse,
and uttered what was in him, pleaded with all his life, conquered by
vital energy. Only when he had walked back to the hotel was he capable
of remembering that Irene, in taking leave, had spoken the kindest
wishes for his future, assuredly with more than the common
hostess-note. Dr. Derwent, too, had held his hand with a pleasant grip,
saying good things. It was better than nothing, and he felt humanly
grateful amid the fire that tortured him.

In his room the sight of pen, ink and paper was a sore temptation. At
Odessa he had from time to time written what he thought poetry (it was
not quite that, yet a