And with that, lightly she crossed the threshold, and was gone, flitting like a sunbeam from the room.
Quietly Max closed the door. He did not look at Olga, but walked straight to the window and stood there with his back turned and his hands in his pockets, staring outwards.
"I hope you don't object to an early visit," he said, after a moment. "I want to get my rounds done in good time to-day, and I didn't like to leave without seeing you first."
"I don't mind at all," stammered Olga in reply. "But—really, there's no reason for you to—to bother about me. I've had a good night, and—and I'm going to get up."
"Really?" he said. "You're not going raspberry picking, I hope?"
She laughed somewhat tremulously. Violet's vindictive thrust had embarrassed rather than hurt her. She looked at the great square shoulders that intervened between her eyes and the morning sunshine, and wondered why he did not turn. Was it possible that he could be feeling embarrassed too? She could scarcely imagine it; but yet the position was sufficiently intolerable for him also.
"I'm afraid the raspberries will have to go," she said regretfully, "unless the boys—"
"They would probably eat 'em as fast as they picked 'em," observed Max grimly. "I know boys."
Again, rather feebly, she laughed. "It seems a pity," she said.
"I shouldn't worry," said Max. "Besides, it's Sunday. You couldn't make jam on Sunday in any case."