ately below her, a thick-set, British figure of
immense strength. A brisk breeze was blowing. She watched him nursing
the flame between his hands, firm, powerful hands, full of confidence.
The flame flickered and went out. Instantly he threw up his head and saw
her. His cigarette was alight.

She drew back sharply as he waved her an airy salute.

"Adieu, fair lady!" called the mocking voice. "I conclude the
aforementioned pal may come, then?"

He did not wait for her answer. She heard him whistling cheerily as he
went in the direction of the coach-house, and the ting of his
bicycle-bell a moment after as he rode away. When that reached her ears,
Olga sat down very suddenly on the edge of her bed with the limpness of
relaxed tension, and realized that she was feeling very weak.

CHAPTER XII

THE PAL

Nick's letter to his wife was written that morning while Olga lay on the
study-sofa, comfortably lazy for once, and listened to the scratching of
his pen.

The boys had been sent to church, Violet was again devouring a book and
smoking Major Hunt-Goring's cigarettes in the hammock, and all was very
quiet.

"I suppose I had better write to Jim too," Nick said, as he looked up at
length from his completed epistle.

"I was just thinking I would," said Olga.

"No. Writing is strictly prohibited by your medical adviser." Nick
grinned over his shoulder. "I'll send him a line myself."

"Don't let him be worried about me," said Olga. "I really don't know why
I'm being so lazy. I feel quite well."

"And look--charming," supplemented Nick.

"Don't be silly, dear! You know I'm as hideous as--"

"As I am? Oh, no, not quite, believe me. I always pride myself I am
unique in that respect. Now you mustn't talk," said Nick judiciously,
"or you will spoil my inspiration. Who's that going across the lawn?"

He was writing rapidly as he spoke. Olga raised herself on her elbow to
look.

"How on earth did you know? I never heard anyone. Oh!"

"What's the matter?" said Nick.

"It's Major Hunt-Goring!"

Nick ceased to write and peered into the garden. "It's all right. He's
only violeting. An interesting pastime!" He turned unexpectedly and gave
her one of his shrewd glances. "You don't seem pleased," he observed.

"Oh, Nick, he's so hateful! And--and Violet actually likes him."

"Every woman to her taste," said Nick. "Why shouldn't she?"

Olga was silent.

Nick returned to his writing. "I'll go and kick him for