Silence and a curious, clinging perfume met them as they entered.
Olga stood still. She was white to the lips. "Nick," she said, in a voiceless whisper, "Nick, that is—the pain-killer!"
And then, very quietly from a room close by, Max came to them. He glanced at Nick and nodded. There was an odd, exultant look in the green eyes. He took Olga's hands very firmly into his own.
"It's all right," he said.
She stared at him, trying to make her white lips form a question.
"It's all right," he said again. "Well over. As satisfactory as it could possibly be. Now don't be silly!" Surely it was the Max of old times speaking! "Pull up while you can! Come in here and sit down for a minute! I am going to take you to see him directly."
That last remark did more towards restoring Olga's self-control than any of the preceding ones. She went with him submissively, making strenuous efforts to preserve her composure. She even took without a murmur the wineglass of sal volatile with which he presented her.
Max stood beside her, still holding one of her hands, his fingers grasping her wrist, and talked over her head to Nick.
"Absolutely normal in every way. Came round without the least trouble. He'll be on his legs again in a fortnight. Of course we shan't turn him loose for a month, and he will have to live in the dark. But he ought to be absolutely sound in six weeks from now."
"And—he will see?" whispered Olga.