"Yes, you, my dear. You've no right to regard him in that unwholesome light. He doesn't deserve it. He is quite a decent sort; a little too managing perhaps, but that's just his way. You might go further and fare much worse."
He paused, but Olga said no word. She only palpitated against his arm.
He continued after a moment with the quick decision characteristic of him. "I'm not going to pursue the subject, but just this once—in justice to the man—I must have my say. You asked me once if I liked him, and I was not in a position to tell you. I will tell you now. I like him thoroughly. He's a man after my own heart, straight and clean and staunch. If you ever want someone to trust—trust him! He'd stand by you to perdition."
"Oh, do you think that of him, Nick?" she said, as one incredulous.
"Yes, dear, I do," said Nick. "Well, that's all I have to say. Suppose we begin to crawl back!"
But Olga waited a moment, watching with fascinated eyes the speck of scarlet that still trembled in the sunshine. It fluttered from sight at last, and with a sigh she turned.
"I wonder if it got away!" she murmured again, as if to herself. "I do wonder!"
But to Max, in spite of Nick's spirited eulogy, she made no further reference.
Nick dined at his brother's house at Weir that evening, alone with Max Wyndham. The boys had gone back to school, and the house was almost painfully quiet. Even Nick seemed to feel a certain depression in the atmosphere, for his cheerful chatter was decidedly fitful, and when he and Max were seated opposite to one another smoking it ceased altogether.
Out of a long silence came Max's voice. "When did you say you were starting for the East?"