Piers obeyed. Whilst he sat penning the letter, Mrs. Borisoff lighted a second cigarette, her face touched with a roguish smile. She studied Otway's profile for a moment; became grave; fell into a mood of abstraction, which shadowed her features with weariness and melancholy. Turning suddenly to put a question, Piers saw the change in her look, and was so surprised that he forgot what he was going to say. "Finished?" she asked, moving nervously in her chair. When the letter was written, Mrs. Borisoff resumed talk in the same tone as before. "You have heard of Dr. Derwent's discoveries about diphtheria?-- That's the kind of thing one envies, don't you think? After all, what can we poor creatures do in this world, but try to ease each other's pain? The man who succeeds in _that_ is the man I honour." "I too," said Piers. "But he is lost sight of, nowadays, in comparison with the man who invents a new gun or a new bullet." "Yes--the beasts!" exclaimed Mrs. Borisoff, with a laugh. "What a world! I'm always glad I have no children. But you wanted to speak, not about Dr. Derwent, but Dr. Derwent's daughter." Piers bent forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Tell me about her--will you?" "There's not much to tell. You knew about the broken-off marriage?" "I knew it _was_ broken off." "Why, that's all anyone knows, except the two persons concerned. It isn't our business. The world talks far too much about such things--don't you think? when we are civilised, there'll be no such things as public weddings, and talk about anyone's domestic concerns will be the grossest impertinence. That's an _obiter dictum_. I was going to say that Irene lives with her father down in Kent. They left Bryanston Square half a year after the affair. They wander about the Continent together, now and then. I like that chumming of father and daughter; it speaks well for both." "When did you see her last?" "About Christmas. We went to a concert together. That's one of the things Irene is going in for--music. When I first knew her, she didn't seem to care much about it, though she played fairly well." "I never heard her play," fell from Piers in an undertone. "No; she only did to please her father now and then. It's a mental and moral advance, her new love of music. I notice that she talks much less about science, much more about the things one really likes--I speak for myself. Well, it's just possible I have had a little influence there. I confess my inability to chat about either physic or physics. It's weak, of course, but I have no place in your new world of women." "You mistake, I think," said Piers. "That ideal has nothing to do with any particular study. It supposes intelligence, that's all." "So much the better. You must write about it in English; then we'll debate. By the bye, if I go to your Castle, you must come down to show me the country." "I should like to."