He cast her a glance with the words that made her aware of a certain not very abstruse meaning behind them. Olga's cheeks burned again. Did he know, then? Had he guessed why Violet was in the house? Was that the reason of his curious vigilance, his guarded acceptance of her favours? She was possessed by an almost overwhelming desire to know, and yet no words could she find in which to ask.
"Well?" said Max, pausing in the act of opening the door. "You were going to say—"
She raised her eyes with a conscious effort, and nerved herself to speak.
"Max," she said desperately, "please don't mind my asking! It isn't from idle curiosity. Do you like her?" She saw the rough red brows go up, and swiftly repented her temerity. "I only asked," she faltered, "because—"
"Well?" Max said again. "It would be interesting to know why you asked."
She compelled herself to answer him, or perhaps it was he who compelled.
In any case, with her head bent, her answer came.
"I had been thinking that perhaps you were getting fond of her, and—and—I should be sorry if that happened, because I know she isn't in earnest. I know she is only playing with you."
The words ran cut in a whisper. She dared not look at him. She could only watch with fascinated eyes the brown fingers that gripped the door-knob.
"She has told you that?" asked Max.
She quivered at the question. It was horribly difficult to answer. "I know it is so," she murmured.