She looked at him with troubled eyes. "No, I don't, dear. That's just it. I—I can't remember. It—frightens me." She clasped his hand with fingers that trembled.
"No need to be frightened," said Nick. "You were ill, you know; first the heat and then the shock. After brainfever, people very often do forget."
"Ah, yes," she said, with a piteous kind of eagerness. "But it is coming back now. I only want you to help a little." She stood suddenly still. "Nick, you are not afraid of Death, I know. Wasn't it you who called it the opening of a Door?"
"It is—just that," said Nick.
"But the body," she said, "the body dies."
"The body," he said, "is like a suit of clothes that you lay aside till the time comes for it to be renovated and made wearable again."
"Ah! She couldn't die, could she, Nick?" Olga's eyes implored him. "Not she herself!" she urged. "She was so full of life. I can't realize it. I can't—I can't! Tell me how it happened! Surely I never saw her dead! Whatever came after, I never could have forgotten that!"
"Tell me how much you do remember, kiddie," Nick said gently. "And I will fill in the gaps."
Her forehead contracted in a painful frown. "It's so difficult," she said, "so disjointed—like a dreadful dream. I know she was horribly afraid of Max. And then there was Major Hunt-Goring. I can't believe she ever liked him. It was only because he—flattered her, and gave her those dreadful cigarettes."
"Probably," said Nick.