"That, fair lady," he coolly responded, "is a question which with regret
I must decline to answer."
Olga flushed. "How absurd!" she said quickly. "Dad would tell me like a shot."
"I am not Dad," said the doctor's assistant, with unruffled urbanity.
"Moreover, fair lady—"
"I prefer to be called by my name if you have no objection, Dr.
Wyndham," cut in Olga, with rising wrath.
He smiled at something over her head. "Thank you, Olga. It saves trouble certainly. Would you like to call me by mine? Max is what I generally answer to."
Olga turned a vivid scarlet. "I am Miss Ratcliffe to you," she said.
He accepted the rebuff with unimpaired equanimity. "I thought it must be too good to be true. Pardon my presumption! When you are as old as I am you will realize how little it really matters. You are genuinely angry, I suppose? Not pretending?"
Olga bit her lip in silence and returned to her work, conscious of unsteady fingers, conscious also of a scrutiny that marked and derided the fact.
"Yes," he said, after a moment, "I should think your pulse must be about a hundred. Leave off working for a minute and let it steady down!"
Olga stitched on in spite of growing discomfiture. The shakiness was increasing very perceptibly. She could feel herself becoming hotter every moment. It was maddening to feel those ironical eyes noting and ridiculing her agitation. From exasperation she had passed to something very nearly resembling fury.