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