"I?" said Olga, quivering disdain in the word.
"You, my little spitfire!" he said genially. "And it won't be the first time, what? Come now! You're always running away, but you should reflect that you're bound to be caught sooner or later. You didn't think I was going to let you off, did you?"
She stood before him speechless, with clenched hands.
He drew a little nearer. "You pay your debts, don't you? And what more suitable opportunity than the present? You are so elusive nowadays. Why, I haven't seen you except from afar since last Christmas. You were always such a nice, sociable little girl till then."
"Sociable!" whispered Olga.
"Well, you were!" He laughed again in his easy fashion. "Don't you remember what fun we had at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, and how you came to tea with me on the sly a few days after, and how we kissed under the mistletoe, and how you promised—"
"I promised nothing!" burst out Olga, with flashing eyes.
"Oh, pardon me! You promised to kiss me again some day. Have you forgotten? I hardly think your memory is as short as that."
He drew nearer still, and slipped a cajoling arm about her. "Why are we in such a towering rage, I wonder? Surely you don't want to repudiate your liabilities! You promised, you know."
She flung up a desperate face to his. "Very well, Major Hunt-Goring," she said breathlessly. "Take it—and go!"