She flinched as if that stung. "No—no! But you might have been kind—you might have been kind—since you knew she cared. If you hadn't made such a study of her, she would never have looked your way. That was the cruel part of it—the dreadful, cold-blooded part."
"What do you mean by kind?" said Max. "You don't seem to realize that the poor girl was mad. If I had been soft with her she would have been beyond my control at once."
"Oh, but she wasn't mad then," Olga's hands clasped each other tightly. "Max," she said, and there was no longer indignation in her voice—it held only pain, "I'm afraid you and I have a good deal to answer for."
"Perhaps," said Max. He was frowning still; but he did not appear angry. She did not wholly understand either his look or tone. "I suppose she thought I treated her badly," he said.
Olga nodded silently.
"She told you so?" His voice sounded stern; yet, still he did not seem to be angry.
"No, never." Almost involuntarily she answered him. "But she did say—once—that you cared only for your profession, that it was not in you to—to worship any woman."
"And you think that too?" he said.
His voice was softer now; it moved her subtly. She turned her face away from him and stifled a sob in her throat.
"No; but, Max—to build our life-happiness on—on the ruin of hers; that—that—is what troubles me."