"I'm not crying!" she sobbed.
"Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly. I'll make you drink some sal volatile if you don't."
"I'm sure you won't. I—I—I'm not a bit afraid of you!" came in muffled tones of distress from the crumpled towel.
"All right. Who said you were?" said Max. "Sit down now! Here's a chair. Now—let me have the towel! Yes, really, Olga!" He loosened her hold upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence. "There, that's better. You look as if you'd got scarlet fever. What did you want to boil yourself like that for? Now, don't cry! It's futile and quite unnecessary. Just sit quiet till you feel better! There's no one about but me, and I don't count."
He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began to sort them into pairs.
"By Jove! You're in the middle of one of mine," he said. "I'll finish this."
He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.
"Oh, don't!" said Olga. "You—you will only make a mess of it."
He waved his hand with airy assurance.
"I never make a mess of anything, and I'm a lot cleverer than you think.
What train is Nick coming home by?"