"No. He fought like a mule. But I had my own way. It was tough work. I crocked up myself afterwards. And then it was his turn." Max jerked up his head. "After that," he said, "we became pals. He was only my patron before; since, we have been—something more than brothers."
He paused. Olga said nothing. She was wondering a little why he had chosen to make this confidence.
Suddenly he turned in his chair and enlightened her. "If you want to know what sort of animal I am," he said, his eyes going direct to hers, "if you want to know if I am worthy of a woman's confidence—in short, if I'm a white man or—the other thing, ask Kersley Whitton. For he is the only person in the world who knows."
The words were blunt, perhaps all the more so for the unwonted touch of fiery feeling which Olga was quick to detect in their utterance. They moved her strangely. It was almost as if he had flung open his soul to her, challenging her to enter and satisfy herself. And something very deep within her awoke and made swift response almost before she knew.
"But I don't need to ask him, Max," she said. "I know that for myself."
"Really?" said Max.
He stretched out his hand to her, without rising. His manner had changed completely. It was no longer passionate, but intensely quiet.
She came to him slowly, feeling compelled. She laid her hand in his.
His eyes were still upon hers. "I can't marry you against your will, can
I?" he said. "It's not done nowadays."
She smiled a little. "I'm not afraid of that."