George Gissing
The Crown of Life
CHAPTER XVI
A few days after her return, Irene left home in the morning to make an unceremonious call. She was driven to Great Portland Street and alighted before a shop, which bore the number of the house she sought. Having found the private entrance—a door that stood wide open—and after ringing once or twice without drawing anyone's attention, she began to ascend the uncarpeted stairs. At that moment there came down a young woman humming an air; a cheery-faced, solidly-built damsel, dressed with attention to broad effect in colours which were then—or recently had been—known as "aesthetic." With some diffidence, for the encounter was not of a kind common in her experience, Irene asked this person for a direction to the rooms occupied by Miss Hannaford.
"Oh, she's my chum," was the genial reply. "Top floor, front. You'll find her there."
With thanks the visitor passed on, but had not climbed half a dozen steps when the clear-sounding voice caused her to stop.
"Beg your pardon and all that kind of thing, but would you mind telling her that Tomkins is huffy? I forgot to mention it before I came out. Thanks, awfully."
Puzzled, if not disconcerted, Miss Derwent reached the top floor and knocked. A voice she recognised bade her enter. She found herself in a bare-floored room, furnished with a table, a chair or two, and a divan, on the walls a strange exhibition of designs in glaring colours which seemed to be studies for street posters. At the table, bending over a drawing-board, sat Olga Hannaford, her careless costume and the disorder of her hair suggesting that she had only just got up. She recognised her visitor with some embarrassment.
"Irene—I am so glad—I really am ashamed—we keep such hours here—please don't mind!"
"Not I, indeed! What is there to mind? I spoke to someone downstairs who gave me a message for you. I was to say that Tomkins was huffy. Do you understand?"
Olga bit her lip in vexation, and to restrain a laugh.
"No, that's too bad! But just like her. That was the girl I live with—Miss Bonnicastle. She's very nice really—not a bit of harm in her; but she will play these silly practical jokes."
"Ah, it was a joke?" said Irene, not altogether pleased with Miss Bonnicastle's facetiousness. But the next moment, good humour coming to her help, she broke into merriment.
"That's what she does," said Olga, pointing to the walls. "She's awfully clever really, and she'll make a great success with that sort of thing before long, I'm sure. Look at that advertisement of Honey's Castor Oil. Isn't the child's face splendid?"
"Very clever indeed," assented Irene, and laughed again, her cousin joining in her mirth. Five minutes ago she had felt anything but hilarious; the impulse to gaiety came she knew not how, and she indulged it with a sense of relief.
"Are you doing the same sort of thing, Olga?"
"Wish I could. I've a little work for a new fashion paper; have to fill in the heads and arms, and so on. It isn't high art, you know, but they pay me."
"Why in the world do you do it? Why do you live in a place like this?"
"Oh, I like the life; on the whole. It's freedom; no society nonsense—I beg your pardon, Irene–"
"Please don't. I hope I'm not much in the way of society nonsense. Sit down; I want to talk. When did you see your mother?"
"Not for a long time," answered Olga, her countenance falling. "I sent her the new address when I came here, but she hasn't been yet."
"Why don't you go to her?"
"No! I've broken with that world. I can't make calls in Bryanston Square—or anywhere else. That's all over."
"Nonsense!"
"It isn't nonsense!" exclaimed Olga, flushing angrily. "Why do you come to interfere with me? What right have you, Irene? I'm old enough to live as I please. I don't come to criticise your life!"
Irene was startled into silence for a moment. She met her cousin's look, and so gravely, so kindly, that Olga turned away in shame.
"You and I used to be friends, and to have confidence in each other," resumed Irene. "Why can't that come over again? Couldn't you tell me what it all means, dear?"
The other shook her head, keeping her eyes averted.
"My first reason for coming," Irene pursued, "was to talk to you about your mother. Do you know that she is very far from well? My father speaks very seriously of her state of health. Something is weighing on her mind, as anyone can see, and we think it can only be you—your strange life, and your neglect of her."
Olga shook her head.
"You're mistaken, I know you are."
"You know? Then can you tell us how to be of use to her? To speak plainly, my father fears the worst, if something isn't done."
With elbow on knee, and chin in hand, Olga sat brooding. She had a dishevelled, wild appearance; her cheeks were hollow, her eyes and lips expressed a reckless mood.
"It is not on my account," she let fall, abstractedly.
"Can you help her, Olga?"
"No one can help her," was the reply in the same dreamy tone.
Then followed a long silence. Irene gazed at one of the flaring grotesques on the wall, but did not see it.
"May I ask you a question about your own affairs?" she said at length, very gently. "It isn't for curiosity. I have a deeper interest."
"Of course you may ask Irene. I'm behaving badly to you, but I don't mean it. I'm miserable—that's what it comes to."
"I can see that, dear. Am I right in thinking that your engagement has been broken off?"
"I'll tell you; you shall know the whole truth. It isn't broken; yet I'm sure it'll never come to anything. I don't think I want it to. He behaves so strangely. You know we were to have been married after the twelvemonth, with mother's consent. When the time drew near, I saw he didn't wish it. He said that after all he was afraid it would be a miserable marriage for me. The trouble is, he has no character, no will. He cares for me a great deal; and that's just why he won't marry me. He'll never do anything—in art, I mean. We should have to live on mother's money, and he doesn't like that. If we had been married straight away, as I wanted, two years ago, it would have been all right. It's too late now."
"And this, you feel, is ruining your life?"
"I'm troubled about it, but more on his account than mine. I'll tell you, Irene, I want to break off, for good and all, and I'm afraid. It's a hard thing to do."
"Now I understand you. Do you think"—Irene added in another tone—"that it's well to be what they call in love with the man one marries?"
"Think? Of course I do!"
"Many people doubt it. We are told that French marriages are often happier than English, because they are arranged with a practical view, by experienced people."
"It depends," replied Olga, with a half-disdainful smile, "what one calls happiness. I, for one, don't want a respectable, plodding, money-saving married life. I'm not fit for it. Of course some people are."
"Then, you could never bring yourself to marry a man you merely liked—in a friendly way?"
"I think it horrible, hideous!" was the excited reply. "And yet"—her voice dropped—"it may not be so for some women. I judge only by myself."
"I suspect, Olga, that some people are never in love—never could be in that state."
"I daresay, poor things!"
Irene, though much in earnest, was moved to laugh.
"After all, you know," she said, "they have less worry."
"Of course they have, and live more useful lives, if it comes to that."
"A useful life isn't to be despised, you know."
Olga looked at her cousin; so fixedly that Irene had to turn away, and in a moment spoke as though changing the subject.
"Have you heard that Mr. Otway is coming to England again?"
"What!" cried Olga with sudden astonishment. "You are thinking of him—of Piers Otway?"
Irene became the colour of the rose; her eyes flashed with annoyance.
"How extraordinary you are, Olga! As if one couldn't mention anyone without that sort of meaning! I spoke of Mr. Otway by pure accident. He had nothing whatever to do with what I was saying before."
Olga sank into dulness again, murmuring, "I beg your pardon." When a minute had elapsed in silence, she added, without looking up, "He was dreadfully in love with you, poor fellow. I suppose he has got over it."
An uncertain movement, a wandering look, and Miss Derwent rose. She stood before one of the rough-washed posters, seeming to admire it; Olga eyed her askance, with curiosity.
"I know only one thing," Irene exclaimed abruptly, without turning. "It's better not to think too much about all that."
"How can one think too much of it?" 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 was dressed in approved English fashion, as a man of leisure, wore a massive watchguard across his buff summer waistcoat, and carried a silver-headed cane.
"You are taking a little walk," he said, with a very slight foreign accent. "If you will let me walk with you a little way I shall be honoured. The Park? A delightful day for the Park! Let us walk over the grass, as we may do in this free country. I have something to tell you, Miss Hannaford."
"That's nice of you, Mr. Florio. So few people tell one anything one doesn't know; but yours is sure to be real news."
"It is—I assure you it is. But, first of all, I was thinking on the 'bus—I often ride on the 'bus, it gives one ideas—I was thinking what a pity they do not use the back of the 'bus driver to display advertisements. It is a loss of space. Those men are so beautifully broad, and one looks at their backs, and there is nothing, nothing to see but an ugly coat. I shall mention my little scheme to a friend of mine, a very practical man."
Olga laughed merrily.
"Oh, you are too clever, Mr. Florio!"
"Oh, I have my little ideas. Do you know, I've just come back from Italy."
"I envy you—I mean, I envy you for having been there."
"Ah, that is your mistake, dear Miss Hannaford! That is the mistake of the romantic English young lady. Italy? Yes, there is a blue sky—not always. Yes, there are ruins that interest, if one is educated. And, there is misery, misery! Italy is a poor country, poor, poor, poor, poor." He intoned the words as if speaking his own language. "And poverty is the worst thing in the world. You make an illusion for yourself, Miss Hannaford. For a holiday when one's rich, yes, Italy is not bad—though there is fever, and there are thieves—oh, thieves! Of course The man who is poor will steal—ecco! It amuses me, when the English talk of Italy."
"But you are proud of—of your memories?"
"Memories!" Mr. Florio laughed a whole melody. "One is not proud of former riches when one has become a beggar. It is you, the English, who can be proud of the past, because you can be proud of the present. You have grown free, free, free! Rich, rich, rich, ah!"
Olga laughed.
"I am sorry to say that I have not grown rich."
He bent his gaze upon her, and it glowed with tender amorousness.
"You remind me—I have something to tell you. In Italy, not everybody is quite poor. For example, my grandfather, at Bologna. I have made a visit to my grandfather. He likes me; he admires me because I have intelligence. He will not live very long, that poor grandfather."
Olga glanced at him, and met the queer calculating melancholy of his fine eyes.
"Miss Hannaford, if some day I am rich, I shall of course live in England. In what other country can one live? I shall have a house in the West End; I shall have a carriage; I shall nationalise—you say naturalise?—myself, and be an Englishman, not a beggarly Italian. And that will not be long. The poor old grandfather is weak, weak; he decays, he loses his mind; but he has made his testament, oh yes!"
The girl's look wandered about the grassy space, she was uneasy.
"Shall we turn and walk back, Mr. Florio?"
"If you wish, but slowly, slowly. I am so happy to have met you. Your company is a delight to me, Miss Hannaford. Can we not meet more often?"
"I am always glad to see you," she answered nervously.
"Good!—A thought occurs to me." He pointed to the iron fence they were approaching. "Is not that a waste? Why does not the public authority—what do you call it?—make money of these railings? Imagine! One attaches advertisements to the rail, metal plates, of course artistically designed, not to spoil the Park. They might swing in the wind as it blows, and perhaps little bells might ring, to attract attention. A good idea, is it not?"
"A splendid idea," Olga answered, with a laugh.
"Ah! England is a great country! But, Miss Hannaford, there is one thing in which the Italian is not inferior to the Englishman. May I say what that is?"
"There are many things, I am sure–"
"But there is one thing—that is Love!"
Olga walked on, head bent, and Florio enveloped her in his gaze.
"To-day I say no more, Miss Hannaford. I had something to tell you, and I have told it. When I have something more to tell we shall meet—oh, I am sure we shall meet."
"You are staying in England for some time?" said Olga, as if in ordinary conversation.
"For a little time; I come, I go. I have, you know, my affairs, my business. How is your friend, the admirable artist, the charming Miss Bonnicastle?"
"Oh, very well, always well."
"Yes, the English ladies they have wonderful health—I admire them; but there is one I admire most of all."
A few remarks more, of like tenor, and they drew near again to the Marble Arch. With bows and compliments and significant looks, Mr. Florio walked briskly away in search of an omnibus.
Olga, her eyes cast down as she turned homeward, was not aware that someone who had held her in sight for a long time grew gradually near, until he stepped to her side. It was Mr. Kite. He looked at her with a melancholy smile on his long, lank face, and, when at length the girl saw him, took off his shabby hat respectfully. Olga nodded and walked on without speaking. Kite accompanying her.
CHAPTER XVII
Olga was the first to break silence.
"You ought to take your boots to be mended," she said gently. "If it rains, you'll get wet feet, and you know what that means."
"You're very kind to think of it; I will."
"You can pay for them, I hope?"
"Pay? Oh, yes, yes! a trifle such as that—Have you had a long walk?"
"I met a friend. I may as well tell you; it was the Italian, Mr. Florio."
"I saw you together," said Kite absently, but not resentfully. "I half thought of coming up to be introduced to him. But I'm rather shabby, I feared you mightn't like it."
"It wouldn't have mattered a bit, so far as I'm concerned," replied Olga good-naturedly. "But he isn't the kind of man you'd care for. If he had been, I should have got you to meet him before now."
"You like him?"
"Yes, I rather like him. But it's nothing more than that; don't imagine it. Oh, I had a call from my cousin Irene this morning. We don't quite get on together; she's getting very worldly. Her idea is that one ought to marry cold-bloodedly, just for social advantage, and that kind of thing. No doubt she's going to do it, and then we shall never see each other again, never!—She tells me that Piers Otway is coming to England again."
"Oh, now I should like to know him, I really should!" exclaimed Kite, with a mild vivacity.
"So you shall, if he stays in London. Perhaps you would suit each other."
"I'm sure, because you like him so much."
"Do I?" asked Olga doubtfully. "Yes, perhaps so. If he hasn't changed for the worse. But it'll be rather irritating if he talks about nothing but Irene still. Oh, that's impossible! Five years; yes, that's impossible."
"One should think the better of him, in a way," ventured Kite.
"Oh, in a way. But when a thing of that sort is hopeless. I'm afraid Irene looks down upon him, just because—you know. But he's better than most of the men she'll meet in her drawing-rooms, that's Certain. Shall I ask him to come to my place?"
"Do. And I hope he'll stay in England, and that you'll see a good deal of him."
"Pray, why?"
"Because that's the right kind of acquaintance for you, he'll do you good."
Olga laughed a little, and said, with compassionate kindness:
"You are queer!"
"I meant nothing unpleasant, Olga," was the apologetic rejoinder.
"Of course you didn't. Have you had dinner yet?"
"Dinner? Oh yes—of course, long ago!"
"I know what that means."
"'Sh! 'Sh! May I come home and talk a little?"
Dinner, it might be feared, was no immutable feature of Mr. Kite's day. He had a starved aspect; his long limbs were appallingly meagre; as he strode along, his clothing, thin and disreputable, flapped about him. But his countenance showed nothing whatever of sourness, or of grim endurance. Nor did he appear to be in a feeble state of health; for all his emaciation, his step was firm and he held himself tolerably upright. One thing was obvious, that at Olga's side he forgot his ills. Each time he glanced at her, a strange beautiful smile passed like a light over his hard features, a smile of infinite melancholy, yet of infinite tenderness. The voice in which he addressed her was invariably softened to express something more than homage.
They had the habit of walking side by side, and could keep silence without any feeling of restraint. Kite now and then uttered some word or ejaculation, to which Olga paid no heed; it was only his way, the trick of a man who lived much alone, and who conversed with visions.
On ascending to the room in Great Portland Street, they found Miss Bonnicastle hard at work on a design of considerable size, which hung against the wall. This young lady, for all her sportiveness, was never tempted to jest at the expense of Mr. Kite; removing a charcoal holder from her mouth, she nodded pleasantly, and stood aside to allow the melancholy man a view of her work.
"Astonishing vigour!" said Kite, in his soft, sincere voice. "How I envy you!"
Miss Bonnicastle laughed with self-deprecation. She, no less than Olga Hannaford, credited Kite with wonderful artistic powers; in their view, only his constitutional defect of energy, his incorrigible dreaminess, stood between him and great achievement. The evidence in support of their faith was slight enough; a few sketches, a hint in crayon, or a wash in water-colour, were all he had to show; but Kite belonged to that strange order of men who, seemingly without effort or advantage of any kind, awaken the interest and gain the confidence of certain women. Even Mrs. Hannaford, though a mother's reasons set her against him, had felt this seductive quality in Olga's lover, and liked though she could not approve of him. Powers of fascination in a man very often go together with lax principle, if not with active rascality; Kite was an instance to the contrary. He had a quixotic sensitiveness, a morbid instinct of honour. If it is true that virile force, preferably with a touch of the brutal, has a high place in the natural woman's heart, none the less does an ideal of male purity, of the masculine subdued to gentle virtues, make strong appeal to the imagination in her sex. To the everyday man, Kite seemed a mere pale grotesque, a creature of flabby foolishness. But Olga Hannaford was not the only girl who had dreamed of devoting her life to him. If she could believe his assurance (and she all but did believe it), for her alone had he felt anything worthy to be called love, to her alone had he spoken words of tenderness. The high-tide of her passion had long since ebbed; yet she knew that Kite still had power over her, power irresistible, if he chose to exercise it, and the strange fact that he would not, that, still loving her, he did not seem to be jealous for her love in return, often moved her to bitterness.
She knew his story. He was the natural son of a spendthrift aristocrat, who, after educating him decently had died and left a will which seemed to assure Kite a substantial independence. Unfortunately, the will dealt, for the most part, with property no longer in existence. Kite's income was to be paid by one of the deceased's relatives, who, instead of benefiting largely, found that he came in for a mere pittance; and the proportion of that pittance due to the illegitimate son was exactly forty-five pounds, four shillings, and fourpence per annum. It was paid; it kept Kite alive; also, no doubt, it kept him from doing what he might have done, in art or anything else. On quarterly pay-day the dreamer always spent two or three pounds on gifts to those of his friends who were least able to make practical return. To Olga, of course, he had offered lordly presents, until the day when she firmly refused to take anything more from him. When his purse was empty he earned something by journeyman work in the studio of a portrait painter, a keen man of business, who gave shillings to this assistant instead of the sovereigns that another would have asked for the same labour.
As usual when he came here, Kite settled himself in a chair, stretched out his legs, let his arms depend, and so watched the two girls at work. There was not much conversation; Kite never began it. Miss Bonnicastle hummed, or whistled, or sang, generally the refrains of the music-hall; if work gave her trouble she swore vigorously—in German, a language with which she was well acquainted and at the sound of her maledictions, though he did not understand them, Kite always threw his head back with a silent laugh. Olga naturally had most of his attention; he often fixed his eyes upon her for five minutes at a time, and Olga, being used to this, was not at all disturbed by it.
When five o'clock came, Miss Bonnicastle flung up her arms and yawned.
"Let's have some blooming tea!" she exclaimed. "All right, I'll get it. I've just about ten times the muscle and go of you two put together; it's only right I should do the slavey."
Kite rose, and reached his hat. Whereupon, with soft pressure of her not very delicate hands, Miss Bonnicastle forced him back into his chair.
"Sit still. Do as I tell you. What's the good of you if you can't help us to drink tea?"
And Kite yielded, as always, wishing he could sit there for ever.
Three weeks later, on an afternoon of rain, the trio were again together in the same way. Someone knocked, and a charwoman at work on the premises handed in a letter for Miss Hannaford.
"I know who this is from," said Olga, looking up at Kite.
"And I can guess," he returned, leaning forward with a look of interest.
She read the note—only a few lines, and handed it to her friend, remarking:
"He'd better come to-morrow."
"Who's that?" asked Miss Bonnicastle.
"Piers Otway."
The poster artist glanced from one face to the other, with a smile. There had been much talk lately of Otway, who was about to begin business in London; his partner, Andre Moncharmont, remaining at Odessa. Olga had heard from her mother that Piers wished to see her, and had allowed Mrs. Hannaford to give him her address; he now wrote asking if he might call.
"I'll go and send him a wire," she said. "There isn't time to write. To-morrow's Sunday."
When Olga had run out, Kite, as if examining a poster on the wall, turned his back to Miss Bonnicastle. She, after a glance or two in his direction, addressed him by name, and the man looked round.
"You don't mind if I speak plainly?"
"Of course I don't," he replied, his features distorted, rather than graced, by a smile.
The girl approached him, arms akimbo, but, by virtue of a frank look, suggesting more than usual of womanhood.
"You've got to be either one thing or the other. She doesn't care that"—a snap of the fingers—"for this man Otway, and she knows he doesn't care for her. But she's playing him against you, and you must expect more of it. You ought to make up your mind. It isn't fair to her."
"Thank you," murmured Kite, reddening a little. "It's kind of you."
"Well, I hope it is. But she'd be furious if she guessed I'd said such a thing. I only do it because it's for her good as much as yours. Things oughtn't to drag on, you know; it isn't fair to a girl like that."
Kite thrust his hands into his pockets, and drew himself up to a full five feet eleven.
"I'll go away," he said. "I'll go and live in Paris for a bit."
"That's for you to decide. Of course if you feel like that—it's none of my business, I don't pretend to understand you; I'm not quite sure I understand her. You're a queer couple. All I know is, it's gone on long enough, and it isn't fair to a girl like Olga. She isn't the sort that can doze through a comfortable engagement of ten or twelve years, and surely you know that."
"I'll go away," said Kite again, nodding resolutely.
He turned again to the poster, and Miss Bonnicastle resumed her work. Thus Olga found them when she came back.
"I've asked him to come at three," she said. "You'll be out then, Bonnie. When you come in we'll put the kettle on, and all have tea." She chanted it, to the old nursery tune. "Of course you'll come as well"—she addressed Kite—"say about four. It'll be jolly!"
So, on the following afternoon, Olga sat alone, in readiness for her visitor. She had paid a little more attention than usual to her appearance, but was perfectly self-possessed; a meeting with Piers Otway had never yet quickened her pulse, and would not do so to-day. If anything, she suffered a little from low spirits, conscious of having played a rather disingenuous part before Kite, and not exactly knowing to what purpose she had done so. It still rained; it had been gloomy for several days. Looking at the heavy sky above the gloomy street, Olga had a sense of wasted life. She asked herself whether it would not have been better, on the decline of her love-fever, to go back into the so-called 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.'"
