“Is it short enough here now?” asked Olga.
“No, not nearly. Just keep on. Do it just the way you like. Ah, you thought you could slip away and hide—didn’t you?—but you couldn’t. It was like the lightning putting out a spark.”
Of all the mad talk....
“I could manage better if you’d keep your head still,” said she.
“Then I can’t look at you. Say, Olga, have you a sweetheart?”
Olga was all unprepared for this. She was not so old and experienced as yet but that some things could put her out of countenance.
“Me? No,” was all she said. “Now I think it’ll have to do as it is. I’ll just round it off a little.” She spoke gently, having some idea he must be drunk.
But Rolandsen was not drunk at all; he was sober. He had been working hard of late; the gathering of strangers in the place had kept the telegraph busy.
“No, don’t stop yet,” he urged. “Cut it round once more—once or twice more—yes, do.”