He stopped in front of her. "Olga," he said, "have you thought about me at all?"
She made a sharp gesture—the involuntary wincing of the victim from the knife.
He went on, very quietly, as if he had not seen. "Do you think I'm going to be happy without you? I've got my career, haven't I, and all my brilliant successes? How much do you think they are worth to me? How far do you think they are going to satisfy me—make up for that which you have taken away?"
He paused, but she could not answer him, could not so much as lift her eyes to his.
He went on. "A little while ago you appealed to my love, and—I don't claim to be more than human—it stood the strain. I appealed to yours, and you sent me about my business. You had some excuse. I had deceived you. But this time—this time—are you going to do the same this time, Olga?"
"I can't help it!" she whispered through her tears.
He came nearer to her, but he did not touch her. "Is that the truth?" he said. "Don't you love me well enough? Is that it? Is my love so little to you that you can afford to throw it away? You know I love you, don't you? You believe in my love?" His voice suddenly vibrated; his hands clenched. "It's stood a good deal," he said. "But, by Heaven! I don't think it will stand this!"
She lifted her face suddenly. "Max, stop! I can't bear it!"
"Neither can I!" He flung back fiercely. "It's too much to ask—too much to give! Olga, you shall come to me! You shall! You shall!"
He caught her to him with the words, holding her mercilessly in a grip that was savage. She felt the hard, passionate beat of his heart against her own. And she gasped and gasped again, as one suddenly immersed in deep waters.