“Yes!  Give me your hand again!” he said in a thick voice, the blood rushing into his cheeks.

“Not now.  You misunderstood me.  I oughtn’t to have done that.  It was because I could find no word to thank you.”

She panted the sentences, holding her chair as if to support herself, and with the other hand still motioning him away.

“I misunderstood——?”

“I am ashamed—­it was thoughtless—­sit down and let us talk as we were doing.  Just as friends, it is so much better.  We meant nothing else.”

It was as if the words fell from her involuntarily; they were babbled, rather than spoken; she half laughed, half cried.  And Otway, a mere automaton, dropped upon his chair, gazing at her, trembling.

“I will let my uncle see the letters at once,” Olga went on, in confused hurry.  “I am sure he will be very grateful to you.  But for you, we should never have had this proof.  I, of course, did not need it; as if I doubted my mother!  But he—­I can’t be sure what he still thinks.  How kind you have always been to us!”

Piers stood up again, but did not move toward her.  She watched him apprehensively.  He walked half down the room and back again, then exclaimed, with a wild gesture: 

“I never knew what a curse one’s name could be!  I used to be proud of it, because it was my father’s; now I would gladly take any other.”

“Just because of that man?” Olga protested.  “What does it matter?”

“You know well what it matters,” he replied, with an unnatural laugh.

“To me—­nothing whatever.”

“You try to think not.  But the name will be secretly hateful to you as long as you live.”

“Oh!  How can you say that!  The name is yours, not his.  Think how long we knew you before we heard of him!  I am telling the simple truth.  It is you I think of, when——­”

He was drawing nearer to her, and again that strange, fixed look came into his eyes.

“I wanted to ask you something,” said Olga quickly.  “Do sit down—­ will you?  Let us talk as we used to—­you remember?”

He obeyed her, but kept his eyes on her face.

“What do you wish to ask, Olga?”

The name slipped from his tongue; he had not meant to use it, and did not seem conscious of having done so.

“Have you seen old Mr. Jacks lately?”

“I saw him last night.”

“Last night?” Her breath caught.  “Had he anything—­anything interesting to say?”

“He is ill.  I only sat with him for half an hour.  I don’t know what it is.  It doesn’t keep him in bed; but he lies on a sofa, and looks dreadfully ill, as if he suffered much pain.”

“He told you nothing?”

Their eyes met.

“Nothing that greatly interested me,” replied Piers heavily, with the most palpable feint of carelessness.  “He mentioned what of course you know, that Arnold Jacks is not going to be married after all.”