"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.