don't!" she said lightly. "And you, Max, what did you come for?"
He seated himself in the chair which Olga had vacated. "I thought it was time someone came to look after you," he said.
"How inane! You don't pretend to be musical, I hope?"
He leaned back, directly facing her. "No," he said. "I don't pretend."
"Never?" she said.
He smiled in his own enigmatical fashion. "That is the sort of question
I never answer."
She nodded gaily. "I knew you wouldn't. Why do you look at me like that? I feel as if I were being dissected. I don't wonder that Olga runs away when she sees you coming. I shall myself in a minute."
He laughed. "Surely you are accustomed to being looked at!"
"With reverence," she supplemented, "not criticism! You have the eye of a calculating apothecary. I believe you regard everybody you meet in the light of a possible patient."
"Naturally," said Max. "I suppose even you are mortal."
"Oh, yes, I shall die some day like the rest of you," she answered flippantly. "But I shan't have you by my death-bed. I shouldn't think you had ever seen anybody die, have you?"
"Why not?" said Max.
"Nobody could with you standing by. You're too vital, too electric. I picture you with your back against the door and your arms spread out, hounding the poor wretch back into the prison-house."
Max got up abruptly and moved to the window. "You have a vivid imagination," he said.
She laughed, drawing her fingers idly across the strings of her mandolin.
"Quite nightmarishly so sometimes. It's rather a drawback for some things. How are you enjoying that book of mine? Do you appreciate the Arabian Nights' flavour in modern literature?"
"It's a bit rank, isn't it?" said Max.
She laughed up at him. "I should have thought you would have been virile enough to like rank things. To judge by the tobacco you smoke, you do."
"Poisonous, isn't it?" said Nick. "I suppose it soothes his nerves, but it sets everyone else's on edge."
Violet stretched out her hand to a box of cigarettes that stood on a table within reach. "You would probably feel insulted if I offered you one of these," she said, "but I practically live on them."
"Very bad for you," said Max.
She snapped her fingers at him. "Then I shall certainly continue the pernicious habit. Do you know Major Hunt-Goring? It was he who gave them to me. He thinks he is going to marry me—but he isn't!"
"Great Lucifer!" said Nick.
She turned towards him. "What an appropriate name! I wish I'd thought of it. Do you know him?"
"Know him!" Nick's grimace was expressive. "Yes, I know him."
"Well?"
"Rather better than he thinks."
She laughed again, lightly, inconsequently, irresistibly. "He's a fascinating creature. It is his proud boast that he has kissed every girl in the neighbourhood except me."
"What an infernal liar!" said Nick.
"How do you know?" Gaily she challenged him. "It's quite probably true. He is exceedingly popular with the feminine portion of the community. I notice that friend Max maintains a shocked silence."
"Not at all," said Max. "I was only wondering why he had made an exception of you."
She tossed her head. "Can't you guess?"
"No, I can't," he returned daringly. "I should have thought you would have been the first on the list."
"How charming of you to say so!" said Violet. "Perhaps you are not aware of the fact that the sweetest fruit is generally out of reach."
"You might have let me say that," said Nick. "But the man is a liar in any case, and I hope he will give me the opportunity to tell him so."
Violet regarded him with interest. "I had no idea you were so pugnacious. Do you always tell people exactly what you think of them? Is it safe?"
"Quite safe for him," said Max.
"Why?" Violet turned back to him, her fingers carelessly plucking at the instrument on her knee.
Max made prompt and unflattering reply. "Because he's so obviously gimcrack that no one dares do anything to him for fear he should tumble to pieces."
"Many thanks!" said Nick.
Violet's peal of laughter mingled with the weird notes of her mandolin, and Olga, returning, desired to be told the joke.
Nick pulled her down beside him on the sofa. "Come and take care of me,
Olga mia! I'm being disgracefully maligned. Can't you persuade Miss Campion to sing to us, by way of changing the subject?"
"Who has been maligning you?" demanded Olga, looking at Max with very bright eyes.
He looked straight back at her with that gleam in his eyes which with any other man would have denoted admiration but which with him she well knew to be only mockery.
"I admit it, fair lady," he said. "I threw a clod of mud at your hero. I thought it would be good for him. However, you will be relieved to hear that it went wide of the mark. He still sits secure in his tight little shrine and smiles magnanimously at my futility."
Olga's hand slipped into Nick's. "He's the biggest man you've ever seen!" she declared, with warmth.
"Please don't fight over my body!" remonstrated Nick. "I never professed to be more than a minnow among Tritons, and quite a lean minnow at that."
"You're not, Nick!" declared his champion impetuously. "You're a giant!"
"In miniature," suggested Max. "He is actually proposing to go and kick
Major Hunt-Goring because—" He broke off short.
Into Olga's face of flushed remonstrance there had flashed a very strange look, almost a petrified look, as if she had suddenly come upon a snake in her path.
"Why?" she said quickly.
"Oh, never mind why," said Max, passing rapidly on. "That wasn't the point. We were trying to picture Hunt-Goring's amusement. He stands about seven feet high, doesn't he? And your redoubtable uncle—What exactly is your height, Ratcliffe?"
"Nick, why do you want to kick Major Hunt-Goring?" Very distinctly Olga put the question. She was evidently too proud to accept help from this quarter.
"It's a chronic craving with me," said Nick. "But Miss Campion has kindly undertaken the job for me. I
