Olga's face was quite serious.
"I'm sure that I don't in the least know what you're talking about.
Your presence is surprising enough—"
Hermia looked defiance.
"Is it? Why? You've outwitted me. I'm simply acknowledging the fact.
John Markham and I have been traveling together for a week—as you
perceive—en vagabond. We like it. It's most amusing. Indiscreet?
Perhaps. If so, I'll take the consequences. Can I say more?"
Olga's smile came slowly—with difficulty. The bravado of fear? Or of indifference? She had never really measured weapons with Hermia.
"I'm the last person in the world whose censure you need fear, my dear," she said suavely.
"I don't fear it," said Hermia promptly. "I'm quite sure I'd rather have had you fin me out than any one I know."
Bravado again.
"I'm glad, darling," Olga purred. "It's sweet of you to say so."
"I don't mean that I wanted to be discovered. If I had I shouldn't have fled from the roulotte of the Fabiani family yesterday when you were looking for me. You traced us from Alençon, of course—"