"Nick taught me," she said, "years ago, when he first lost his arm. It's about the only thing he can't do himself."
"I've noticed that he's fairly agile," commented Max. "What did he have his arm cut off for? Couldn't he make himself conspicuous enough in any other way?"
Olga's cheeks flamed. "He was wounded in action," she said shortly.
Max cocked one corner of his mouth. "And so entered Parliament in a blaze of glory," he said. "Vote for the Brave! Vote for the Veteran! Vote for the One-Armed Hero! Never mind his politics! That empty sleeve must have been absolutely invaluable to him in his electioneering days."
But joking on this subject was more than Olga could bear. The sight of the empty sleeve was enough to bring tears to her eyes at times even now. To hear it thus lightly spoken of was intolerable.
"How dare you say such a thing!" she exclaimed. "As if
Nick—Nick!—would ever stoop to take advantage of a thing like that.
Nick, who might have won the V.C., only—" She broke off with vehement
self-repression. "I'm an idiot to argue with you!" she said.
"Don't be too hard on yourself!" said Max kindly. "Your imbecility takes quite an attractive form, I assure you. So our gallant hero occupies the shrine of your young affections, does he? It must be rather cramping for him. Is he never allowed to come out and stretch himself?"
Olga said no word in answer. Her lips were firmly closed.
"Poor chap!" said Max. "He must find it a tight squeeze, notwithstanding his size. If you don't slow up pretty soon, fair lady, you will knock the Priory into a heap of ruins."
"I know what I'm about," breathed Olga.