"You blamed Max," he pointed out.
"Oh, but Max didn't love her!" He heard a note of quick pain in her voice. "Oh, don't you see," she said, "how love makes all the difference? Surely that was what St. Paul meant when he said that love was the fulfilling of the law. Nick, you must agree with me in this. It was utterly hopeless. Think of it! Think of it! If she had been living now!" A sudden hard shiver went through her. "Nick, if I had been in her place—wouldn't you have done the same for me?"
"I don't know," he said.
But she clung to him more closely. "You do know, dear! You do know!"
And then Nick did a strange, impulsive thing. He suddenly flung down his reserve and bared to her his inmost soul.
"Yes, Olga mia, I do know," he said. "I would have done the same for you. I nearly did the same for Muriel when we were in a tight corner long ago at Wara. But whether it's right or whether it's wrong, God alone can judge. It may be we take too much upon us, or it may be He means us to do it. That is what I have never yet decided. But I solemnly believe with you that love makes all the difference. Love is the one extenuating circumstance which He will recognize and pass. It isn't the outward appearance that counts. It's just the heart of things."
He stopped. Olga was listening with earnest attention, her pale face rapt. For a moment, as he ceased to speak, their eyes met, and between them there ran the old electric current of sympathy, re-connected and entire.
"Oh, Nick," she said, "you never fail me! You always understand!"
But Nick shook his head in whimsical denial. "No, not always, believe me,—being but a man. But I've learnt to hide my ignorance by taking the difficult bits for granted. For instance, I didn't expect you to take this thing so sensibly. If I had, I should have acted very differently long ago."
"Do you call me sensible, Nick?" she said, with a wistful smile.