Olga winced a little.  “Oh, Max, but she was so beautiful!” she urged wistfully.

He made a slight gesture of impatience.  “I don’t dispute it.  But what of it?  My brain is not the sort to be turned by beauty.  There was too much of it for my taste.  She was exotic.  That type of beauty gives me indigestion.”

Olga looked at him reproachfully.  “You didn’t like her, Max?”

“Not much,” said Max.

She made a movement as if she would withdraw herself from him, but he quietly and very resolutely held her still.  “Although you knew she cared for you!” she said.

“Yes, in spite of that;” said Max.  “In fact, I felt a bit vexed with her for complicating matters in that fashion.  Goodness knows I never gave her the smallest reason for it!”

Olga laughed faintly, with an unwonted touch of bitterness.  “It’s a pity women are such doting fools,” she said.

He looked at her attentively.  “Did you say that?” he asked.

She met his look, not without defiance.  “Yes, and I meant it too.  It’s such a wicked waste.  And I think—–­ I think—­in her case it was something far worse.  I believe it was that which in a very great measure helped to unhinge her mind.”

“How could I help it?” demanded Max almost fierily.  “I never wanted her to care.”

“That was just the cruel part of it,” said Olga.  “It was just your utter indifference that broke her heart.”

“Good heavens!” said Max.

He let her go very abruptly and leaned against one of the verandah posts as if he needed support.

Olga tilted herself over the side of the hammock and stood up.  “You couldn’t help not caring,” she said.  “But—­you might have been a little kinder.  You needn’t have made her hate and fear you.”

Max surveyed her grimly from under drawn brows.  “My dear,” he said, “you simply don’t know what you are talking about.”

That fired her.  A quiver of passion went suddenly through her.  She faced him as she had faced him in the old days with a courage that sustained itself.

“Indeed, I know!” she said.  “Better than it is in your power to understand.  Oh, I know now what made her—­hate you so.”

The last words came with a rush, almost under her breath; but they were fully audible to the man lounging before her.

He did not speak at once, and yet he did not give the impression of being at a loss.  He continued to lounge while he contemplated her with eyes of steady inscrutability.

He spoke at length with extreme deliberation.  “And so you want to take me to task for breaking her heart, do you?”

“She was my friend,” said Olga quickly.

He stood up slowly.  “And would you have liked it better if I had made love to her?”

She flinched as if that stung.  “No—­no!  But you might have been kind—­you might have been kind—­since you knew she cared.  If you hadn’t made such a study of her, she would never have looked your way.  That was the cruel part of it—­the dreadful, cold-blooded part.”