Perhaps he was a little curious to know how she meant to treat him during her father’s absence, or it may have been sheer chance that actuated him on that sultry evening in August, but Nick and his three playfellows had only just settled down to a serious sett when the doctor’s assistant emerged from the house with his hands deep in his pockets and a peculiarly evil-smelling cigarette between his firm lips, and strolled across to the shady corner under the walnut-trees where the doctor’s daughter was sitting.

She was stitching so busily that she did not observe his approach until escape was out of the question; but she would not have retreated in any case.  It was characteristic of her to display a bold front to the people she disliked.

She threw him one of her quick glances as he reached her, and noted with distaste the extreme fieriness of his red hair in the light of the sinking sun.  His hair had always been an offence to her.  It was so obtrusive.  But she could have borne with that alone.  It was the green eyes that mocked at everything from under shaggy red brows that had originally given rise to her very decided antipathy, and these Olga found it impossible to condone.  People had no right to mock, whatever the colour of their eyes.

He joined her as though wholly unaware of her glance of disparagement.

“I fear I am spoiling a charming picture,” he observed as he did so.  “But since there was none but myself to admire it, I felt at liberty to do so.”

Again momentarily Olga’s eyes flashed upwards, comprehending the whole of his thick-set figure in a single sweep of the eyelids.  He was exceedingly British in build, possessing in breadth what he lacked in height.  There was a bull-dog strength about his neck and shoulders that imparted something of a fighting look to his general demeanour.  He bore himself with astounding self-assurance.

“Have you had any tea?” Olga inquired somewhat curtly.  She was inwardly wondering what he had come for.  He usually had a very definite reason for all he did.

“Many thanks,” he replied, balancing himself on the edge of the hammock.  “I am deeply touched by your solicitude for my welfare.  I partook of tea at the Campions’ half an hour ago.”

“At the Campions’!” There was quick surprise in Olga’s voice.

It elicited no explanation however.  He sat and swayed in the hammock as though he had not noticed it.

After a moment she turned and looked at him fully.  The green eyes were instantly upon her, alert and critical, holding that gleam of satirical humour that she invariably found so exasperating.

“Well?” said Olga at last.

“Well, fair lady?” he responded, with bland serenity.

She frowned.  He was the only person in her world who ever made her take the trouble to explain herself, and he did it upon every possible occasion, with unvarying regularity.  She hated him for it very thoroughly, but she always had to yield.