"I? Why should I follow you?"
"I haven't the slightest idea—unless your conversation a moment ago with John Markham explains it."
"You heard—that!"
"Oh, yes,—didn't you want me to? I'm not deaf. But you needn't be at all worried about it." She paused and brushed the dust of the loft from her coat sleeve. "You know, Olga, I don't believe it—any of it."
Olga smiled sagely, but Markham, who all this while had been standing like a figure of wax, now showed signs of animation.
"It was all a joke, of course, Hermia," he began, moving forward.
"Olga knows as well as I do that—"
But Hermia had waved him into silence.
"Let me finish," she insisted, and he paused.
"I fancy the atmosphere needs clearing," she went on coolly, "and we may as well do it at once. As I remarked a few moments ago, I deny nothing, crave no indulgences, from you, Olga, or from anyone. I cry peccavi. But I want you to understand that I feel no regret. Even at the cost of this dénouement I should not hesitate to seek my freedom—if I could find it with John Markham. I love him. And he—do let me finish, Philidor,—he loves me. So there you are. There's nothing more to be said. What could one say?"
Olga had reached the door, shrugging her shoulders very prettily.