"Whilst I was there," pursued Irene, "there came a letter from Mr. Otway. No, no; not from him; from Mr. Piers Otway."
She gave a general idea of its contents, and praised its tone. "I daresay," threw out her father, almost irritably, "but I shall strongly advise her to have done with all of that name."
"It's true they are of the same family," said Irene, "but that seems a mere accident, when one knows the difference between our friend Mr. Otway and his brothers."
"Maybe; I shall never like the name. Pray don't speak of 'our friend.' In any case, as you see, there must be an end of that."
"I should like you to see his letter, father. Ask aunt to show it you."
The Doctor smoked fiercely, his brows dark. Rarely in her lifetime had Irene seen her father wrathful—save for his outbursts against the evils of the world and the time. To her he had never spoken an angry word. The lowering of his features in this moment caused her a painful flutter at the heart; she became mute, and for a minute or two neither spoke.
"By the bye," said Dr. Derwent suddenly, "it is a most happy thing that your aunt's money was so strictly tied up. No one can be advantaged by her death—except that American hospital. Her scoundrelly acquaintances are aware of that fact no doubt."
"It's a little hard, isn't it, that Olga would have nothing?"
"In one way, yes. But I'm not sure she isn't safer so." Again there fell silence.
Again Irene's eyes wandered, and her hands moved nervously.