Rising from the table at length, she was aware of an urgent impulse to shirk the interview for which he had made request.  Valiantly she held it in check, but it did not have a very soothing effect upon her nerves.

The whole party rose together, and she slipped away to the kitchen to discuss domestic matters with the cook.  She knew that Max saw her go, knew with sure intuition that he would seize the opportunity of her return to secure those few minutes alone with her that he had desired.

She was not mistaken.  He was waiting for her by the baize door that led to the surgery when she emerged.  With a brief, imperious gesture he invited her to pass through.  The door closed behind them, and they were alone together.

“Come along into the consulting-room,” said Max.

She turned thither without question.  The room was in darkness.  Max went forward and lighted the gas.  Then, without pause, he wheeled and faced her.

“Are you angry with me still?”

Olga stood still by the table.  “You haven’t brought me in here to—­quarrel, have you?” she said, a hint of desperation in her voice.

He smiled very slightly.  “I have not.  Sit down, won’t you?  You’re looking very fagged.”

He pulled forward an arm-chair, and she sat down with a nervous feeling that she was about to face a difficult situation.  He relaxed into his favourite position, lounging against the table, his hands deep in his pockets.

“I want a word with you about Hunt-Goring,” he said.

She looked up startled.  “What about him?”

“He was here to-day, wasn’t he?” proceeded Max.

“Yes.  He came to see Violet.”

Max grunted.  “I suppose you know his little game?”

Olga’s eyes widened.  “No, I don’t.  What is it?”

He looked at her for a moment or two in silence.  “Do you really imagine that you succeed in effacing yourself when you hide behind the beautiful Miss Campion?” he asked then.

The quick colour rose in her face.  “What an absurd question!” she said.

“Why absurd?”

“As if anyone could possibly prefer me to Violet!”

“I know at least two who do,” said Max.

“Who?” She flung the question almost angrily, as though she uttered it against her will.

Very deliberately he answered her.  “Hunt-Goring and myself.”

She started.  Her face was burning now.  Desperately she strove to cover her confusion, or at least to divert his attention from it.  “I am quite sure Major Hunt-Goring doesn’t!  He—­he wouldn’t be so silly!”

“We are neither of us that,” remarked Max with a twist of the lips that was hardly a smile.  “I suppose you don’t feel inclined to tell me exactly what the fellow’s hold over you is.”

“You said you didn’t want to know!” she flashed back.

Max’s green eyes were regarding her very intently.  She resented their scrutiny hotly, but she could not bring herself to challenge it.