"Why?"
"You would take up too much of his valuable time," he rejoined. "A man has to think of that, you know."
"Only horrid sordid men like you!" she retorted.
He uttered his dry laugh. "A professional man must think of his career."
She tossed her head. "Is that your creed—that there is no time for a woman in a professional man's life?"
Max laughed again. "She mustn't be too beautiful, anyhow."
She sprang suddenly to her feet. The mandolin jarred and jangled upon the ground. "Are you listening, Allegro?" she said, and through her deep voice there ran a sinister note that seemed to mingle, oddly vibrant, with the echoing strings of the instrument. "A professional man can admit only a plain woman into his life. The other kind is too distracting, since he must think of his career."
Nick cut in upon the words with the suddenness of a sabre-thrust. "Oh, we all say that till we meet the right woman, and then, be she lovely or hideous, the career bobs under like a float and ceases to count."
Max grunted. "Does it? Well, you ought to know."
"Let's go and have supper," said Olga, and turned from the room.