"All right, dear," he said gently. "You can count on me. What's the trouble? Hunt-Goring again?"
She shivered at the name. "No—no! At least—not alone. He hasn't worried me."
She became silent, painfully, desperately silent, while she fought for self-control.
Again Nick glanced across at Max. "Pour out a glass of wine!" he said briefly.
Max stood up. He went to the table, and very deliberately mixed a little brandy and water. His face, as he did it, was absolutely composed. He might have been thinking of something totally removed from the matter in hand.
Yet, as he turned round, the air of grimness was perceptible again. He held out the glass to Nick. "I think I'll go," he said.
"No!" It was Olga who spoke. She stretched out a detaining hand. "I want you—please—to stay. I—I—"
She faltered and stopped as Max's hand closed quietly and strongly upon hers.
"Very well," he said. "I'll stay. But drink this like a sensible girl!
You're cold."
She obeyed him, leaning upon Nick's shoulder, and gradually the deadly pallor of her face passed. She drew her hand out of Max's grasp, and relinquished Nick's support.