THE SETTING OF THE WATCH
To return to the Priory with her bête-noir seated in triumph beside her was a trick of fortune that Olga had been very far from anticipating. There was no help for it, however, for he was determined to go thither, notwithstanding her assurance that the master of the house was from home. He leaned back at his ease and watched her drive with frank criticism.
"I had no idea you were so accomplished," he remarked, as they skimmed up the long Priory drive. "I should have thought you were much too nervous to drive a car."
Olga was never nervous except in his presence, but she would have rather died than have had him know it.
"Nick taught me," she said, "years ago, when he first lost his arm. It's about the only thing he can't do himself."
"I've noticed that he's fairly agile," commented Max. "What did he have his arm cut off for? Couldn't he make himself conspicuous enough in any other way?"
Olga's cheeks flamed. "He was wounded in action," she said shortly.
Max cocked one corner of his mouth. "And so entered Parliament in a blaze of glory," he said. "Vote for the Brave! Vote for the Veteran! Vote for the One-Armed Hero! Never mind his politics! That empty sleeve must have been absolutely invaluable to him in his electioneering days."
But joking on this subject was more than Olga could bear. The sight of the empty sleeve was enough to bring tears to her eyes at times even now. To hear it thus lightly spoken of was intolerable.
"How dare you say such a thing!" she exclaimed. "As if
Nick—Nick!—would ever stoop to take advantage of a thing like that.
Nick, who might have won the V.C., only—" She broke off with vehement
self-repression. "I'm an idiot to argue with you!" she said.
"Don't be too hard on yourself!" said Max kindly. "Your imbecility takes quite an attractive form, I assure you. So our gallant hero occupies the shrine of your young affections, does he? It must be rather cramping for him. Is he never allowed to come out and stretch himself?"
Olga said no word in answer. Her lips were firmly closed.
"Poor chap!" said Max. "He must find it a tight squeeze, notwithstanding his size. If you don't slow up pretty soon, fair lady, you will knock the Priory into a heap of ruins."
"I know what I'm about," breathed Olga.
He caught the remark and threw it back with his customary readiness. "Do you really? I humbly beg to question that statement. If you did know, you would proceed with caution."
Olga applied her brake and brought the car adroitly to a standstill in front of the house before replying. Then she flung him a challenging glance.
"Yes," he said with deliberation. "I don't question your cleverness, fair lady;—only your wisdom. You are too prone to let your feelings run away with you, and that is the most infectious disorder that I know."
She laughed, avoiding his eyes, and hotly aware of a certain embarrassment that made reply impossible. "Perhaps, when you have quite finished your lecture, you will get out," she said, "and let me do the same. It's hot sitting here."
"Evidently," said Max.
He turned and descended, held up a hand to her, then, as she ignored it, stooped to guard her dress from the wheel. She whisked it swiftly from his touch, and ran in through the open door, encountering the master of the house just coming out with a suddenness that involved a collision.
He held her up with a sharp, "Hullo, hullo! Why don't you look where you are going?"
And Olga, crimson and breathless, extricated herself with more of speed than dignity. "I'm so sorry, Colonel Campion. The sun is so blazing, I didn't see you. I've come to fetch Violet. She has promised to spend a few days with me while Dad is away."
Colonel Campion's thin, bronzed face was grim, but he raised no objection to the projected visit. He turned at once to Max.
"Hullo, Wyndham! You, is it? Come in and have a drink."
And Olga, feeling herself dismissed, hastened away to find her friend. She stood somewhat in awe of Colonel Campion, despite the fact that his young half-sister defied him continually with impunity. There was something fateful and forbidding about him. He made her think of a man labouring perpetually under a burden which he resented, but was compelled to bear. She wondered what he and Max Wyndham could have in common as she paused at the sea-window on the stairs to cool her cheeks. He had certainly been pleased in his gloomy fashion to see Max, though he had not troubled to give her a welcome.
She found that Violet had not proceeded much further with her packing than when she had left her more than an hour before. She was in fact lying at careless ease half-dressed upon the bed, deeply immersed in a book with a lurid paper cover. She scarcely raised her eyes at Olga's entrance.
"Back already. My dear, you are like quicksilver. Well have I named you Allegro! It suits you to perfection. Sit down—anywhere! I really can't attend to you for a few minutes. This is the beastliest thing I've ever read. You shall have it when I've finished. It's all about the Turkish massacres in Armenia—revolting—absolutely revolting—" Her voice trailed off into a semi-conscious murmur and ceased. The beautiful eyes, dilated with horror, devoured the open page.
Olga contemplated her for a moment, then went to the bedside. "Violet, do put down that hateful book! How can you read such disgusting things? Violet!" as her remonstrance elicited no response, "do get up and let us pack your things! Dr. Wyndham is downstairs."
"What?" Violet looked at her this time, but with a mazed expression as of one half-asleep. "Who? The great Objectionable himself? How did you inveigle him here? By nothing short of witchcraft, I will swear. Those pale eyes of yours are rather witch-like, do you know? Did you fly over on a broomstick to fetch him? And why?"
Olga possessed herself of the book, and shut it with decision. "I came upon him at Redlands, and as he has got the car with him, we may as well go back in it. He said he was coming here in any case."
"Really, dear? I wonder why." Violet made a futile effort to recapture her book. "You might let me have it. I must know what became of those unlucky girls when the convent was taken. They mutilated most of the nuns with their scimitars. But the pupils—Allegro, let me have it, dear! I shan't sleep a wink to-night till I know the worst."
"You won't sleep if you do," said Olga magisterially.
"You shan't read any more. It's a disgusting, filthy book and you shan't have it. Get up and dress, and don't be horrid!"
"Horrid!" Violet broke into a gay laugh and the strained look passed in a moment from her eyes. "I was all that was beautiful a little while ago. You're quite right though. It is a foul book, and the man who wrote it is a downright beast. Take it away, and never let me see it again!"
She sprang from the bed, and began to do up her hair rapidly before the glass. Olga laid down the book, and busied herself with folding the various articles of raiment that littered the room.
"I think we ought to be quick," she said.
"To
