"But my dear girl!" he said. He took her two hands clasped into his. "I can't reason with you, Olga," he said. "You are quite unreasonable, and you know it. If you were any other woman, I should say that you felt in the mood for a good cry and so were raking up any old grievance for a pretext. As you are you, I won't say that. But I absolutely prohibit crying in my presence. If you want to indulge in tears, you must wait till I am out of the way."
She smiled at him faintly. "Max, I—I loved her-so; and I wasn't even with her—when she died."
Max was silent, suddenly and conspicuously silent, so that she knew on the instant that he had no sympathy to bestow on this point.
Yet an inner longing that was passionate urged her to brave his silence.
Pleadingly she raised her face to his.
"Max, you were there, I know. Tell me—tell me about it!"
But he looked straight back at her with eyes that told her nothing, and she saw that his face was hard. For a little she tried to withstand him, mutely beseeching him; but at length her eyes fell before his.
And then Max spoke, briefly yet not unkindly. "My dear Olga, believe me, in nine cases out of ten it is better to forget those things that are behind; and this is one of the nine. I can't tell you anything on that subject, so we had better regard it as closed."
It was a bitter disappointment to her; but she saw that there was no appealing against his decision. She made as though she would turn away.
But he stopped her with quiet mastery. "No, I won't have that," he said.
"I am not so cold-blooded as you think. I haven't hurt you—really,
Olga!"
A note of tenderness sounded in his voice. She yielded to him, albeit under protest.