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"Hm.... If you wish to kill him, to kill him outright, you can see him... Olga, go and see whether Uncle's beef tea is ready it is almost time," she added, giving Pierre to understand that they were busy, and busy making his father comfortable, while evidently he, Pierre, was only busy causing him annoyance. Olga went out.
If her breach of conventions had found her out, there was no one, not even Olga, who would look at her and say that she was showing the white feather.
I used to be proud of it, because it was my father's; now I would gladly take any other." "Just because of that man?" Olga protested. "What does it matter?" "You know well what it matters," he replied, with an unnatural laugh. "To me nothing whatever." "You try to think not. But the name will be secretly hateful to you as long as you live." "Oh! How can you say that! The name is yours, not his.
He bided his time, therefore, since there was no urgent need to broach the subject forthwith and he was still by no means sure of his ground. He would have discussed the matter with Nick, but Nick was never to be found. He came and went with astonishing rapidity, bewildering even Olga by the suddenness of his moves. Vaguely she heard of unrest in the city, but definite information she had none.
She knew that at any moment he could rend her refuge to pieces and hold her at his mercy. Abruptly he left Blake and came to her side. "I want you and Grange to come to Redlands for luncheon," he said. "Olga is hostess there. Don't refuse." "Oh, do come!" urged Olga, dancing eagerly upon one leg. "You've never been to Redlands, have you? It's such a lovely place. Say you'll come, Muriel."
They talked through the towels they were wiping off the make-up with, talked bent double over shoe-buckles, talked in little gasps as they tugged at tight sweaty things that didn't want to come off. And they made a striking contrast to Olga, who sat there just as she'd left the stage, without a hook unfastened, in a rapturous reverie, waiting for Rose.
"And then I do not see Miss Olga Bracely, though I distinctly told her I should be here this afternoon, and she said Mrs Lucas had asked her. She sang to us yesterday evening at The Hall, and very creditably indeed. Her husband, Mr Shuttleworth, is a cousin of the late lord's." Lucia had come into the smoking-parlour during this speech, and heard these fatal words.
She resumed her sewing with a puckered brow. Certainly Olga must be warned. There might be no truth in the story, but then rumours of that description never started themselves. And Max Wyndham well she had been prejudiced against him from the beginning in spite of the fact that Nick was all in his favour. He was ruthless and unscrupulous; she was sure of it.
He went back to the porch and stood in the sunshine waiting with renewed patience. Ten minutes later a moist nose nozzled its way into his hand. He looked down into Cork's eyes of faithful friendliness. Then, hearing a light footfall, he turned. Olga had come back to him at last. Straight to him she came, moving swiftly.
She tossed it proudly, and quite scorned the thought of the humble cottage which had given her shelter so long. The next day, when she had returned to her gown of tow, and was no longer a haughty court lady, but only Olga, the flax-spinner's maiden, she repined at her lot. Frowning she carried the water from the spring. Frowning she gathered the cresses and plucked the woodland fruit.
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