e 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