“Will you—­please—­go?” said Olga, in that still voice of hers, not looking at him yet, nor moving.

He laughed again caressingly.  “Yes, I’ll go.  You want to have a good quiet think, I suppose.  But there’s only one way out, you know.  You’ll have to give in now.  And the sooner the better.”

“I shall see you on Thursday,” she said.

“Yes, I shall be there.  Keep the supper-dances for me!  We’ll find a quiet corner somewhere and enjoy ourselves.  Till Thursday then!  Good-bye!”

“Good-bye!” she said.

He was gone.  Before her wide eyes he went away along the verandah, and passed from her sight, and there fell an intense silence.

Olga sat motionless as a statue, gazing straight before her.  A squirrel skipped airily on to the further end of the verandah and sat there, washing its face.  Below, on the path, a large lizard flicked out from behind a stone, looked hither and thither, spied the still figure, and darted away again.  And then, somewhere away among the cypresses the silence was broken; a paroquet began to screech.

Olga stirred, and a great breath burst suddenly from her—­the first she had drawn in many seconds.  She stretched out her hands into emptiness.

“Oh, Max!” she said.  “Max!  Max!”

With that bitter cry, all her strength seemed to go from her.  She bowed her head upon her knees and wept bitterly, despairingly....

It must have been a full quarter of an hour later that Nick came lightly along the verandah, paused an instant behind the bowed figure, then slipped round and knelt beside it.

“Kiddie!  Kiddie!  What’s the matter?” he said.

His one arm gathered her to him, so that she lay against his shoulder in the old childish attitude, his cheek pressed against her forehead.

She was too exhausted, too spent by that bitter paroxysm of weeping, to be startled by his sudden coming.  She only clung to him weakly, whispering, “Oh, Nick, have you come back at last?”

“But of course I have,” he said.  “Have you been worrying about me?  I sent you a message.”

“I know.  But I—­I couldn’t help being anxious.”  She murmured the words into his neck, her arms tightening about him.

“What a silly little sweetheart!” he said.  “Is that what you’ve been crying for?”

She was silent.

He passed rapidly on.  “You mustn’t cry any more, darling.  Old Reggie will be here soon, you know.  He’ll think I’ve been bullying you.  Have you been sitting here by yourself all the morning?  Why didn’t you go down to Daisy Musgrave?”

“I didn’t want to, Nick.  I—­I don’t in the least mind being by myself,” she told him, mastering herself with difficulty.  “Tell me what you’ve been doing—­all this time!”

“I?” said Nick.  “Watching and listening chiefly.  Not much else.  Is the post in?  Come and help me read my letters!”

“They’re here.”  Olga turned and began to feel about with one hand under her work.