Her mockery set him more at ease. He saw a refuge and took it.
"I think you're not quite so mad—as mischievous," he said boldly. "Your loves are too frequent to cause your friends much concern—least of all the one you honor with your present professions. I'm not woman-wise, Olga. And I'm not honey-mouthed. I hope you won't mind if I say I don't believe you."
Her smile vanished.
"You will—in time," she said quickly. "So will—Hermia." She paused, and then, her fingers on his arm, her eyes to his.
"Have you—? Has she—? You wouldn't marry her, John?"
Her tone was soft, but the inference had the ominous sibilance of a whip-lash, which swirled in the air and circled over Hermia, too. He chose his words deliberately.
"She's the sweetest, cleanest, purest woman I've ever known."
She shrugged and drew away. Whatever she felt, no sound escaped her. He followed toward the lights of the Avenue, aware that a crisis in his affairs of some sort had been reached and passed. His companion walked more and more rapidly, setting the pace which outdid the slow movement of his wits.
But he caught up with her presently and took her by the arm.
"Olga, forgive me. You maddened me. I wanted you to know—that Hermia was not what you thought she was. You lower your own standards—can't you see—when you lower hers? She's only a girl—thoughtless, a thing of impulses only—mad impulses if you like—but clean, Olga,—like a child. You've only to look at her and see—"