Max all about the man, and shuddered
again at the bare thought. Not that there was much to tell, but even so,
it was enough to set the blood racing in her veins and to make her hotly
ashamed. She remembered with gratitude that he had not pressed her to be
open on this point. He had left the matter almost at the first sigh of
her reluctance to discuss it. She liked him for that. It furnished proof
of a kindly consideration with which she had not otherwise credited him.
It also furnished proof that he did not think very seriously of the
matter. And for that also, lying awake in the moonlight, Olga secretly
blessed her champion. Hard of head and cool of heart he might be, but he
was undoubtedly a white man through and through.

From that she began to wonder if she really had met her fate, and if so,
what life with him would be like, whether she would find it difficult,
whether they would quarrel much, whether--whether they would ever fall
in love. Of course there were plenty of people in the world who didn't,
excellent people to whom romance in that form came not. Olga had always
been quite sure that she was not romantic. She had always loved cricket
and hockey and all outdoor sports. She had even--quite privately--been a
little scornful over such shreds of romance as had come beneath her
notice, dismissing them as paltry and ridiculous. Possibly also Violet's
scoffing attitude towards her adorers had fostered her indifference.

No, on the whole she decided that it was verging upon foolish
sentimentality to contemplate the possibility of falling in love. She
was convinced Max would think so, even pictured to herself the one-sided
smile that such nonsense would provoke. Doubtless he deemed her too
sensible to waste time and thought over anything so absurd. He would
even quite possibly be extremely annoyed if she ever ventured beyond the
limits of rational friendship which he had marked out. Olga's sense of
humour vibrated a little over this thought. He was always so scathing
about her worship of Nick. He would certainly find no use for such
feminine trash himself.

And yet--and yet--through her mind, vague as a dream, intangible yet not
wholly elusive, there floated once more the memory of a voice that had
reassured, a hand that had lulled her to rest. Had he really spoken that
word of tenderness? Had his lips really touched her hair? Or had it all
been a trick of her fancy already strung to fantastic imaginings by that