She seated herself, and her eyes turned to the beautiful figure on the wall. Piers watched her countenance. "You have seen it already?" he said. "A few days ago." "You know who did it?" "Mr. Kite, I am told," she answered absently. "And," she added, after a pause, "I think he disgraced himself by lending his art to such a purpose." Piers said nothing, and looked away to hide his smile of pleasure. "I asked you to come," were his next words, "to show you a letter I have had from John Jacks' solicitors." Glancing at him with surprise, Olga took the letter he held out, and read it. In this communication, Piers Otway was informed that the will of the late Mr. Jacks bequeathed to him the capital which the testator had invested in the firm of Moncharmont & Co., and the share in the business which it represented. "This is important to you," said the girl, after reflecting for a moment, her eyes down. "Yes, it is important," Piers answered, in a voice not quite under control. "It means that, if I choose, I can live without working at the business. Just live; no more, at present, though it may mean more in the future. Things have gone well with us, for a beginning; much better than I, at all events, expected. What I should like to do, now, would be to find a man to take my place in London. I know someone who, just possibly, might be willing--a man at Liverpool." "Isn't it a risk?" said Olga, regarding him with shamefaced anxiety. "I don't think so. If _I_ could do so well, almost any real man of business would be sure to do better. Moncharmont, you know, is the indispensable member of the firm." "And--what would you do? Go abroad, I suppose?" "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.