He lowered himself on to the grassy bank beside her chair, smiling up at her with easy insolence. Olga did not look at him. Handsome though he undoubtedly was, he was the one man of her acquaintance whose eyes she shrank from meeting. His very proximity sent a shiver of disgust through her. She made a covert movement to edge her chair away.
"Where is Miss Campion?" she said.
He laughed again, that hateful confidential laugh of his. "She has gone indoors to rest. The heat made her sleepy. I suggested the hammock, but she wouldn't run the risk of being caught napping. I see that there is small danger of that with you."
Olga stiffened. She was putting together her work with evident determination. "I will see you off," she said.
"You seem in a mighty hurry to get rid of me," he said, without moving.
She laid her mending upon the grass and rose. "I am busy—as you see," she returned.
He looked at her for a moment, then very deliberately followed her example. He stood looking down at her from his great height, a speculative smile on his face.
"You've soon had enough of me, what?" he suggested.
Olga's pale eyes gleamed for an instant like steel suddenly bared to the sun. She said nothing whatever, merely stood before him very stiff and straight, plainly waiting for him to go.
"It's a pity to outstay one's welcome," he said. "I wouldn't do that for the world. But what about that kiss you offered me just now?"