"For a time, at all events. Possibly to Russia—I have a purpose—too vague to speak of yet—I should frighten myself if I spoke of it. But it all depends upon——" He broke off, unable to command his voice. A moment's silence, during which he stared at the woman on the wall, and he could speak again. "I can't go alone. I can't do—can't think of—anything seriously, whilst I am maddened by solitude!"
Olga sat with her head bent. He drew nearer to her.
"It depends upon you. I want you for my companion—for my wife——"
She looked him in the face—a strange, agitated, half-defiant look.
"I don't think that is true! You don't want me——"
"You! Yes, you, Olga! And only you!"
"I don't believe it. You mean—any woman." Her voice all but choked. "If that one"—she pointed to the wall—"could step towards you, you would as soon have her. You would rather, because she is more beautiful."
"Not in my eyes!" He seized her hand, and said, half laughing, shaken with the moment's fever, "Come and stand beside her, and let me see how the real living woman makes pale the ideal!"
Flushing, trembling at his touch, she rose. Her lips parted; she had all but spoken; when there came a loud knock at the door of the room. Their hands fell, and they gazed at each other in perturbation.
"Silence!" whispered Otway. "No reply!"