The Crown of Life Part 21

"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 n.o.ble emotion, and at another betrayed excessive shrewdness; heavy eyebrows and long black lashes; a nose of cla.s.sical Perfection; large mouth with thick and very red lips. He was dressed in approved English fashion, as a man of leisure, wore a ma.s.sive 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 gra.s.s, 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 a.s.sure 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts. It is a loss of s.p.a.ce. 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 gra.s.sy s.p.a.ce, 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 advertis.e.m.e.nts 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.