Still the oppressive atmosphere of perfumes. Left for a few minutes in a little drawing-room, or boudoir, Piers stood marvelling at the ingenuity which had packed so much furniture and bric-tate-brac, so many pictures, so much drapery, into so small a space. He longed to throw open the window; he could not sit still in this odour-laden hothouse, where the very flowers were burdensome by excess. When Olga reappeared, she was gorgeous in flowing tea-gown; her tawny hair hung low in artful profusion; her neck and arms were bare, her feet brilliantly slippered.
"Ah! How good, how good, it is to sit down and talk to you once more!—Do you like my room?"
"You have made yourself very comfortable," replied Otway, striking a note as much as possible in contrast to that of his hostess. "Some of these drawings are your own work, no doubt?"
"Yes, some of them," she answered languidly. "Do you remember that pastel? Ah, surely you do—from the old days at Ewell!"
"Of course!—That is a portrait of your husband?" he added, indicating a head on a little easel.
"Yes—idealised!"
She laughed and put the subject away. Then tea was brought in, and after pouring it, Olga grew silent. Resolute to talk, Piers had the utmost difficulty in finding topics, but he kept up an everyday sort of chat, postponing as long as possible the conversation foreboded by his companion's face. When he was weary, Olga's opportunity came.
"There is something I must say to you——"
Her arms hung lax, her head drooped forward, she looked at him from under her brows.
"I have suffered so much—oh, I have suffered! I have longed for this moment. Will you say—that you forgive me?"