This much Olga saw; but she did not wait for more.  The situation was beyond her.  An involuntary exclamation of dismay escaped her, an inarticulate sound that seemed physically wrung from her; and then, without a second glance, ignominiously she turned and fled.

The sound of Hunt-Goring’s oily laugh followed her as she went, and added speed to her flying feet.

It was several minutes later that Max entered the surgery, carrying an armful of stockings, and found her scrubbing her face vigorously over the basin that was kept there.  She had turned on the hot water, and a cloud of steam arose above her head.

“Don’t scald yourself!” said Max.  “Try the pumice!”

“Oh, go away!” gasped Olga, with a furious stamp.

“Not going,” said Max.

He fetched out a clean towel, and placed it within her reach.  Then he sat down on the table and waited, whistling below his breath.

Olga grabbed the towel at last and buried her face in it.  “Do you want to make me—­hate you?” She flung at him through its folds.

“Don’t be silly!” said Max.

“I’m not!” she cried stormily.  “I’m not!  It’s you who—­who make bad worse—­always!”

He stood up abruptly.  “No, I don’t.  I help—­when I can.  Sit down, and stop crying!”

“I’m not crying!” she sobbed.

“Then take that towel off your face, and behave sensibly.  I’ll make you drink some sal volatile if you don’t.”

“I’m sure you won’t.  I—­I—­I’m not a bit afraid of you!” came in muffled tones of distress from the crumpled towel.

“All right.  Who said you were?” said Max.  “Sit down now!  Here’s a chair.  Now—­let me have the towel!  Yes, really, Olga!” He loosened her hold upon it, and drew it away from her with steady insistence.  “There, that’s better.  You look as if you’d got scarlet fever.  What did you want to boil yourself like that for?  Now, don’t cry!  It’s futile and quite unnecessary.  Just sit quiet till you feel better!  There’s no one about but me, and I don’t count.”

He turned to the pile of stockings he had brought in with him, and began to sort them into pairs.

“By Jove!  You’re in the middle of one of mine,” he said.  “I’ll finish this.”

He thrust his hand into it and prepared to darn.

“Oh, don’t!” said Olga.  “You—­you will only make a mess of it.”

He waved his hand with airy assurance.

“I never make a mess of anything, and I’m a lot cleverer than you think.  What train is Nick coming home by?”

“I don’t know.  The five-twenty probably.”

He glanced at the clock.  “Half an hour from now.  And where is the fair Violet?”

“I don’t know.  He said she had gone in.  I suppose I ought to go and see.”

“Sit still!” said Max, frowning over his darning.  “She is probably reading some obscene novel, and won’t be wanting you.”

“Max!”