He went on, smoothly satirical. "I used to think the odds were in favour of Miss Campion, you know. You will pardon me for saying that I don't think there are many girls who could have cut her out."
Olga's face froze to a marble immobility. "There was no question of that," she said.
"No?" Hunt-Goring's urbanity scarcely covered his incredulity. "I fancied she took the opposite view. Well, well, the poor girl is dead and out of the running. I consider Max Wyndham is a very lucky man."
He spoke with significance and Noel's eyes, jealously watching Olga's face, saw her flinch ever so slightly. A hot wave of anger rose within him; his hands clenched. He turned upon Hunt-Goring.
"If you have anything offensive to say," he said, in a furious undertone, "say it to me, you damned coward!"
Hunt-Goring looked at him at last. "I beg your pardon?" he said.
Noel was on the verge of repeating his remark when, quick as a flash,
Olga turned and caught his arm.
"Noel, please, please!" she gasped breathlessly. "Not here! Not now!"
He attempted to resist her, but she would not be resisted. With all her strength she pulled him away, her hands tightly clasped upon his arm. And it was thus that they came face to face with Max, sauntering in ahead of his host.
He glanced at them both, but showed no surprise, though both Olga's agitation and Noel's anger were very apparent.