"Ah, well, it's a comparatively harmless illusion," said Nick, with his quizzical grimace. "I'll endeavour to live up to it. Sure you want me to go?"
"Yes. You must go, dear. I'm sure Muriel is wanting you. I've monopolized you long enough. You—you'll tell Noel, won't you? Is he all right?"
"At the very top of his form," said Nick.
She smiled. "I'm so very glad. Give him my love, Nick, my—my best love."
"I will," said Nick. He stood up. "He's a fine chap—Noel," he said. "He deserves the best, and I hope—some day—he'll get it."
With which enigmatical remark, he wheeled and left her.
CHAPTER XXIX
THE MAN'S POINT OF VIEW
That letter to Max was perhaps the hardest task that Olga had ever undertaken. She spent the greater part of three hours over it, oblivious of everything else; and then, close upon the dinner-hour, tore up all previous efforts in despair and scribbled a brief, informal note that was curiously reminiscent of one she had written once in a moment of impulsive penitence and pinned inside his hat.
"Dear Max," it ran, "I want to tell you that everything has come back to me, and I am very, very sorry. Will you forgive me and let us be friends for the future? Yours, Olga."