going to give up them too. The opium habit grows on
one so."

"Opium!" echoed Olga sharply.

"Opium, dear child! It's a cunning mixture and most seductive. The
astute Max little knew what he was inhaling this afternoon." Violet's
words had a curious tremor in them as of semi-tragic mirth.

Olga listened in horrified silence. So this was the secret of Max's
peculiar behaviour! If he did not know by this time, then she did not
know Max Wyndham.

"Yes," Violet went on. "Hunt-Goring is counting on those cigarettes of
his to get me under his influence. I know. But I'm tired to death of the
man. I'm going to pass him on to you."

"I hate him!" said Olga quickly.

"Oh, yes, dear! But he has his points. You'll find he can be quite
amusing. Anyhow, take him off my hands for a spell. It isn't fair to
make me do all your entertaining."

"Why don't you snub him?" said Olga, with some impatience. "It certainly
isn't my fault that he comes here."

"Allegro, don't be horrid! I didn't refuse to help you when you wanted
help." There was actually a pleading note in Violet's voice.

Olga responded to it instantly, with that ready warmth of hers that was
the secret of her charm. "My dear, you know I would do anything in my
power for you. But I can't--possibly--be nice to Major Hunt-Goring. I do
detest him so."

"You detest Max Wyndham," said Violet quickly. "But you manage to be
nice to him."

The words rang almost like an accusation. For the moment Olga felt quite
incapable of replying. She lay in silence.

"Allegro!" Again she heard that note of pleading, vibrant this time,
eager, almost passionate.

With an effort Olga brought herself to answer. "I've changed my mind
about him. We are friends."

"Friends!" Violet sprang from the bed, and stood tense, quivering, with
an arrow-like straightness that made her superb. Her eyes glittered as
she faced the moonlight that poured through the unshaded window. "Does
that mean you--care for him?" she demanded.

Olga hesitated. Violet in this mood was utterly unfamiliar to her, a
strange and tragic personality before which she felt curiously small and
ill at ease, even in some unaccountable fashion guilty.

"Dear, please don't ask me such startling questions!" she said. "I can't
possibly answer you."

"Why not?" said Violet. Her hands were clenched. Her whole body seemed
to be held in rigid control thereby.

"Because--" again Olga hesitated, considered, finally broke off lam