And when Fenton saw her standing in the semi-darkness, a slender drooping figure with infinite pathos in her soft violet eyes, he forgot that he had seen her but three times all together, forgot that on their past meeting they had parted with pronounced coolness, forgot that she was born to the purple of royalty, forgot everything but that he loved her and that she was meant to be his.... And so both lost sight of all considerations, practical, artificial or conventional, and remembered the only truly essential thing in life to them. Fenton gathered her up in his arms. Olga yielded willingly, gladly.
Such moments, however, are brief. On second thoughts these same considerations of a practical, artificial or conventional nature come trooping back into the mind, stern judges who mercilessly point out the folly of one's course in temporarily forgetting them. Fenton, exalted beyond all compare by her unexpected surrender, rained kisses on her hair, her brow, her eyes, her nose, the dimple in her cheek. When he reached her lips, the meaning of it all came back to Olga. She began to remember again, her position, her promise—and Miridoff. Breaking from his embrace with sudden strength, she ran to the couch and threw herself upon it, burying her head in her arms while passionate sobs shook her.
From the lofty heights of exultation, Fenton descended to the barren plain of uncertainty and bewilderment. Manlike he could not understand her sudden change of attitude, and manlike he stood over the couch and looked down at her ruefully and awkwardly. When he essayed to touch her she shrank away from him and her sobs increased in violence.
But Olga had been trained in a stern school and it did not take her long to conquer her emotion. The spell passed as suddenly as it had come. She sat up and dried her eyes and even (for a girl can remember such things at moments of deepest stress) patted her hair into shape again.
"Come, sit down beside me," she said quietly and compassionately. "There are many things we must say—and our time, alas, is so short."
Fenton sat down. He longed to clasp her in his arms again, she looked so pretty and fragile, but something warned him not to do so. Olga understood and rewarded him by placing one little hand in his.
"It was wrong," she said, looking him frankly in the eyes for the first time. "There can be nothing between us. Presently I shall tell you why. But first there are things we must tell each other frankly."
Fenton sat as if turned to stone. The loving abandon of her welcome had set his heart beating wildly with new hopes and aspirations. Now he realised dully that for some reason all hope would be taken from him.
"Do you love me?" she asked.
It was hardly necessary for him to speak. His answer shone in his eyes.