“Why did you go to the Campions’?” she asked, barely restraining her irritation.

“That, fair lady,” he coolly responded, “is a question which with regret I must decline to answer.”

Olga flushed.  “How absurd!” she said quickly.  “Dad would tell me like a shot.”

“I am not Dad,” said the doctor’s assistant, with unruffled urbanity.  “Moreover, fair lady—­”

“I prefer to be called by my name if you have no objection, Dr. Wyndham,” cut in Olga, with rising wrath.

He smiled at something over her head.  “Thank you, Olga.  It saves trouble certainly.  Would you like to call me by mine?  Max is what I generally answer to.”

Olga turned a vivid scarlet.  “I am Miss Ratcliffe to you,” she said.

He accepted the rebuff with unimpaired equanimity.  “I thought it must be too good to be true.  Pardon my presumption!  When you are as old as I am you will realize how little it really matters.  You are genuinely angry, I suppose?  Not pretending?”

Olga bit her lip in silence and returned to her work, conscious of unsteady fingers, conscious also of a scrutiny that marked and derided the fact.

“Yes,” he said, after a moment, “I should think your pulse must be about a hundred.  Leave off working for a minute and let it steady down!”

Olga stitched on in spite of growing discomfiture.  The shakiness was increasing very perceptibly.  She could feel herself becoming hotter every moment.  It was maddening to feel those ironical eyes noting and ridiculing her agitation.  From exasperation she had passed to something very nearly resembling fury.

“Leave off!” he said again; and then, because she would not, he laid a detaining hand upon her work.

Instantly and fiercely her needle stabbed downwards.  It was done in a moment, almost before she realized the nature of the impulse that possessed her.  Straight into the back of his hand the weapon drove, and there from the sheer force of the impact broke off short.

Olga exclaimed in horror, but Max Wyndham made no sound of any sort.  The cigarette remained between his lips, and not a muscle of his face moved.  His hand with the broken needle in it was not withdrawn.  It clenched slowly, that was all.

The blood welled up under Olga’s dismayed eyes, and began to trickle over the brown fist.  She threw a frightened glance into his grim face.  Her anger had wholly evaporated and she was keenly remorseful.  But it was no matter for an apology.  The thing was beyond words.

“And now,” said Max Wyndham, coolly removing the ash from his cigarette, “perhaps you will come to the surgery with me and get it out.”

“I?” stammered Olga, turning very white.

“Even so, fair lady.  It will be a little lesson for you—­in surgery.  I hope the sight of blood doesn’t make you feel green,” said Max, with a one-sided twitch of the lips that was scarcely a smile.