"Who?" Millar asked, blandly.
"Did Olga run away from me?"
"No one ran from you that I know of, Karl. That is a pretty girl, my young friend, that little Elsa."
"Yes, she is pretty," Karl replied absently, sitting down at a table.
He was still tortured by the sight of Millar leaning over Olga, touching her hands, whispering in her ear. He was tormented by the insinuating words the man had uttered in the afternoon when he swore that Olga should love him; should be his. He would have liked to take Millar's throat in his two hands and throttle him.
Keenly aware of the inferno he had raised in Karl, Millar continued to chat affably, Karl not deigning to answer. Finally Millar said:
"You seem annoyed."
Karl lost control of himself and leaped to his feet. He went close to Millar, staring into his eyes.
"I am annoyed. Do you want to know why?" he demanded, putting all the insolence he could command into his tone.