She was not mistaken. He was waiting for her by the baize door that led to the surgery when she emerged. With a brief, imperious gesture he invited her to pass through. The door closed behind them, and they were alone together.
"Come along into the consulting-room," said Max.
She turned thither without question. The room was in darkness. Max went forward and lighted the gas. Then, without pause, he wheeled and faced her.
"Are you angry with me still?"
Olga stood still by the table. "You haven't brought me in here to—quarrel, have you?" she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.
He smiled very slightly. "I have not. Sit down, won't you? You're looking very fagged."
He pulled forward an arm-chair, and she sat down with a nervous feeling that she was about to face a difficult situation. He relaxed into his favourite position, lounging against the table, his hands deep in his pockets.
"I want a word with you about Hunt-Goring," he said.
She looked up startled. "What about him?"
"He was here to-day, wasn't he?" proceeded Max.