longer alone! Olga looked up with a gasp. Her face was no longer pale, but flaming red. She seemed to be burning from head to foot.
And there, not a dozen paces from her, was Maxwell Wyndham, carelessly approaching, his hands in his pockets, his hat thrust to the back of his head, a faint, supercilious smile cocking one corner of his mouth, his whole bearing one of elaborate unconsciousness.
This much Olga saw; but she did not wait for more. The situation was beyond her. An involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped her, an inarticulate sound that seemed physically wrung from her; and then, without a second glance, ignominiously she turned and fled.
The sound of Hunt-Goring's oily laugh followed her as she went, and added speed to her flying feet.
It was several minutes later that Max entered the surgery, carrying an armful of stockings, and found her scrubbing her face vigorously over the basin that was kept there. She had turned on the hot water, and a cloud of steam arose above her head.
"Don't scald yourself!" said Max. "Try the pumice!"
"Oh, go away!" gasped Olga, with a furious stamp.
"Not going," said Max.
He fetched out a clean towel, and placed it within her reach. Then he sat down on the table and waited, whistling below his breath.
Olga grabbed the towel at last and buried her face in it. "Do you want to make me—hate you?" She flung at him through its folds.
"Don't be silly!" said Max.
"I'm not!" she cried stormily. "I'm not! It's you who—who make bad worse—always!"
He stood up abruptly. "No, I don't. I help—when I can. Sit down, and stop crying!"
"I'm not crying!" she sobbed.
"Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly. I'll make you drink some sal volatile if you don't."
"I'm sure you won't. I—I—I'm not a bit afraid of you!" came in muffled tones of distress from the crumpled towel.
"All right. Who said you were?" said Max. "Sit down now! Here's a chair. Now—let me have the towel! Yes, really, Olga!" He loosened her hold upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence. "There, that's better. You look as if you'd got scarlet fever. What did you want to boil yourself like that for? Now, don't cry! It's futile and quite unnecessary. Just sit quiet till you feel better! There's no one about but me, and I don't count."
He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began to sort them into pairs.
"By Jove! You're in the middle of one of mine," he said. "I'll finish this."
He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.
"Oh, don't!" said Olga. "You—you will only make a mess of it."
He waved his hand with airy assurance.
"I never make a mess of anything, and I'm a lot cleverer than you think.
What train is Nick coming home by?"
"I don't know. The five-twenty probably."
He glanced at the clock. "Half an hour from now. And where is the fair
Violet?"
"I don't know. He said she had gone in. I suppose I ought to go and see."
"Sit still!" said Max, frowning over his darning. "She is probably reading some obscene novel, and won't be wanting you."
"Max!"
"I apologize," said Max.
Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."
"It's me," said Max.
She dried the last of her tears. "What—what did you do with him?"
"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."
"I wish Mitchel would run into something and kill him!" said Olga, with sudden vehemence.
Max's brows went up. "Afraid I didn't give Mitchel instructions to that effect."
He spoke without raising his eyes, being quite obviously intent upon his darning. Olga watched him for a few seconds in silence. Finally she gave herself a slight shake and rose.
"You're doing that on the right side," she said.
"It's the best way to approach this kind of hole," said Max.
She came and stood by his side, still closely watching him.
"Dr. Wyndham!" she said at last, her voice very low.
"Please don't make me nervous!" said Max.
"Don't, please!" she said. "I want to speak to you seriously."
He drew out his needle with a reflective air. "Are you going to ask me to prescribe for you?"
"No."
"Then don't call me 'Dr. Wyndham'!" he said severely. "I don't answer to it, except in business hours."
She smiled faintly. "Max, then! Will you do me a favour?"
Max's eyes found hers with disconcerting suddenness. "On one condition," he said.
"What is it?"
The corner of his mouth went up. "I will name my condition when you have named your favour."
She hesitated momentarily. "Oh, it isn't very much," she said. "I only want you not to tell—Nick, or anyone—about—about what happened this afternoon."
"Why isn't Nick to know?" asked Max.
"He would be so angry," she said, "and he couldn't do any good. He would only go and get himself hurt."
"Would you care to know what Hunt-Goring said to me after you had effected a retreat?" asked Max.
The hot colour began to fade out of her cheeks. "Yes," she said, under her breath.
"He said—you know his breezy style: 'Don't be astonished! Miss Ratcliffe and I understand one another. In fact, we've been more or less engaged for a long time, though it isn't generally known.'"
"Max!" Olga started back as if from a blow. "He never said—that!"
"Yes, he did. I guessed it was a lie," said Max, "in spite of appearances."
She winced. "It is a lie!" she said with vehemence. "You—you told him so?"
"I was not in a position to do that," said Max. "But if you authorize me to do so—"
"Yes—yes?" she said feverishly.
"I
