"So he might," said Nick grimly. "He's crazy enough for anything. What has he been doing?"
"Is he crazy?" she said, catching at the word.
"He's drug-ridden," said Nick, "and devil-ridden too upon occasion. Now tell me!"
She began to cry with her head against his arm. "Nick,—I'm frightened!
I can't!"
"Oh, damn!" said Nick to the world at large. And then he gently released himself and knelt beside her. "Look here, Olga darling! There's nothing to frighten you. I'm not a headlong fool. There! Dry your eyes, and be sensible! What's the beast been up to? Made love to you, has he?"
His bony hand grasped hers again very vitally, very reassuringly. Almost insensibly she yielded herself to his control. Quiveringly she began to tell him of the morning's happenings.
Perhaps it was as well that she did not see Nick's face as she did so, or she might have found it difficult to continue. As it was she spoke haltingly, with many pauses, describing to him Hunt-Goring's arrival and invitation, her own dilemma, her final surrender.
"I couldn't help it, Nick," she said, still fast clinging to his hand.
"I couldn't let her go alone."
"Go on," said Nick.
And then she told him of Hunt-Goring's overture, her own sick repulsion for the man, his persistence, his brutality.