"You don't think he is really jealous?"
Olga shook her head.
"I don't know," she said. "During the six years we have been together and you have been our friend, he has often pretended to be jealous. This time there was something in his voice that made me believe it was more than pretense. It is the first time he has ever left us alone."
They were standing, Karl near the door, where he had bidden Herman farewell, and Olga across the apartment. In an alcove in one corner an open fire burned brightly, casting a red glow over the big, comfortable arm-chair drawn up before it, with its high, pulpit-shaped back toward them. Karl walked over to Olga and said with quiet earnestness:
"We have tried to avoid it, Olga; tried for six years. Now that the situation is forced upon us, why not be honest? Let us talk about it frankly."
"I think it was sweet not to discuss it for six long years," Olga said, smiling at him. "A clean conscience is like a warm cloak, Karl; it enfolds us and makes us feel so comfortable."
She tried to make her mood seem light, but Karl would not fall in with it.
"Last night, when it was suggested that I should paint your portrait, you gave me a look I had never seen before," he persisted. "I wonder why?"
"I don't know," Olga answered, her fear returning. "Don't let us talk about it; I don't want to."
"You must not be afraid of me, Olga; if I were not I you might be frightened. I am fond of you, yes; but respectfully. I do not see what harm can be done by talking everything over quietly. It seems so long ago—seven years—since they told me that Herman was to be your husband. It was on the anniversary of the day——"