She was too exhausted, too spent by that bitter paroxysm of weeping, to be startled by his sudden coming. She only clung to him weakly, whispering, "Oh, Nick, have you come back at last?"
"But of course I have," he said. "Have you been worrying about me? I sent you a message."
"I know. But I—I couldn't help being anxious." She murmured the words into his neck, her arms tightening about him.
"What a silly little sweetheart!" he said. "Is that what you've been crying for?"
She was silent.
He passed rapidly on. "You mustn't cry any more, darling. Old Reggie will be here soon, you know. He'll think I've been bullying you. Have you been sitting here by yourself all the morning? Why didn't you go down to Daisy Musgrave?"
"I didn't want to, Nick. I—I don't in the least mind being by myself," she told him, mastering herself with difficulty. "Tell me what you've been doing—all this time!"
"I?" said Nick. "Watching and listening chiefly. Not much else. Is the post in? Come and help me read my letters!"
"They're here." Olga turned and began to feel about with one hand under her work.
"All right. I'll find 'em." He let her go, and fished out his correspondence himself. She was glad that he did not look at her very critically or press further for the cause of her woe.