"You're candid at any rate. But when I like I can be most unpleasant.
Ask Olga Tcherny."
Her gaze flickered then flared into steadiness as she said coolly.
"I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about."
"Do you mean to say that you don't remember?" he asked smiling.
"My memory is excellent. Perhaps I lack imagination. What should I remember?"
"My studio—in New York. You visited me with the Countess Tcherny."
"I do not know—I have never met the Countess Tcherny."
The moment was propitious. There was a sound of voices, and Markham and his visitor glanced over their shoulders past the angle of the cottage to where in the bright sunlight into which she had emerged, stood the Countess Olga.
"Hermia, thank the Lord!" she was saying. "How you've frightened us, child!" She came quickly forward, but when Markham rose she stopped, her dark eyes round with astonishment.
"You! John Markham! Well, upon my word! C'est abracadabrant! Here I've been harrowing my soul all morning with thoughts of your untimely death, Hermia, dear, turning Westport topsy-turvy, to find you at your ease snugly wrapped in tête-à-tête with this charming social renegade. It is almost too much for one's patience!"