d respectable world, share her mother's prosperity, make the
most of her personal attractions, and marry as other girls did--if
anyone invited her. She was doing no good; all the experience to be had
in a life of mild Bohemianism was already tasted, and found rather
insipid. An artist she would never become; probably she would never
even support herself. To imagine herself really dependent on her own
efforts, was to sink into misery and fear. The time had come for a new
step, a new beginning, yet all possibilities looked so vague.

A knock at the door. She opened, and saw Piers Otway.

If they had been longing to meet, instead of scarcely ever giving a
thought to each other, they could not have clasped hands with more
warmth. They gazed eagerly into each other's eyes, and seemed too much
overcome for ordinary words of greeting. Then Olga saw that Otway
looked nothing like so well as when on his visit to England some couple
of years ago. He, in turn, was surprised at the change in Olga's
features; the bloom of girlhood had vanished; she was handsome,
striking, but might almost have passed for a married woman of thirty.

"A queer place, isn't it?" she said, laughing, as Piers cast a glance
round the room.

"Is this your work?" he asked, pointing to the posters.

"No, no! Mine isn't for exhibition. It hides itself--with the modesty
of supreme excellence!"

Again they looked at each other; Olga pointed to a chair, herself
became seated, and explained the conditions of her life here. Bending
forward, his hands folded between his knees, Otway listened with a face
on which trouble began to reassert itself after the emotion of their
meeting.

"So you have really begun business at last?" said Olga.

"Yes. Rather hopefully, too."

"You don't look hopeful, somehow."

"Oh, that's nothing. Moncharmont has scraped together a fair capital,
and as for me, well, a friend has come to my help, I mustn't say who it
is. Yes, things look promising enough, for a start. Already I've seen
an office in the City, which I think I shall take. I shall decide
to-morrow, and then--_avos_!"

"What does that mean?"

"A common word in Russian. It means 'Fire away.'"

"I must remember it," said Olga, laughing. "It'll make a change from
English and French slang--_Avos_!"

There was a silence longer than they wished. Olga broke it by asking
abruptly:

"Have you seen my mother?"

"Not yet."

"I'm afraid she's not well."

"Then why do