But it was Max who stooped and swiftly lifted her, holding her against his heart, stroking the fair hair with his steady capable hand. And surely there was magic in his touch, for almost immediately her weeping ceased. She looked up with slightly startled eyes, and drew herself gently but quite definitely from him.
"Thank you," she said, with a quaint touch of dignity. "You're very kind. Nick dear, I'm sorry. I—I'm all right now. Dad's very sweet to put it like that, pretending he doesn't mind a bit. I don't know how ever I shall say good-bye to him."
"You are really going then?" said Max.
She looked at him with a fleeting smile. "Yes, really!" she said.
"I congratulate you," he said.
Nick chuckled. "He is pretending he doesn't mind, too, Olga."
Olga flushed a little. "Oh, Max never pretends," she said. "Do you,
Max?"
He smiled in his grim fashion. "It is not for me to contradict you," he said. "Permit me to congratulate you instead, and to hope that the East will not take as great liberties with your complexion as it has with Nick's."
"I'd rather be like Nick than anyone else in the world," she declared, with one arm wound about her hero's neck.
"Curious, isn't it?" grinned Nick.