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So we stayed there, thinking ourselves safe. But in the morning " He paused. Mrs. Hammond had risen and was fingering the flowers on the tea table. "In the morning," she finished dryly, "Olga Tcherny found you there. I understand." He rose and faced her uncomprehendingly. "Mrs. Hammond, do you mean that you believe as she did?"
He would have liked above all things to have employed it in a visit to the house of Olga Tcherny and thence with dispatch to the hotel of Monsieur de Folligny, where what remained of his wrath could be honestly expended in a manner befitting the occasion. This occupation being denied him, there was nothing left but to take what pleasure he could from the mental picture that he made of it.
Out on the terrace over the coffee and tobacco, the compound slowly resolved itself into its elements, social and sentimental. Markham, scarcely aware of the precise moment when she had appropriated him, found himself in the garden below the terrace with Olga Tcherny. The heavy odor of the roses was about them, unstirred by the land breeze which faintly sighed in the treetops.
Olga Tcherny paused a moment, her hand on Markham's arm. "You will come to 'Wake-Robin'?" she asked. "I think not," he replied. "Then I shall come to Thimble Island," she finished. "I shall be charmed, of course." She looked over her shoulder at him and laughed. He was watching the distant spot in the air. "You're too polite to be quite natural." "I didn't mean to be."
Like the skillful general who covers his retreat by an unexpected show of strength, Olga Tcherny had retired in good order, with colors flying. She had struck hard, spent some ammunition and endangered her line of communications, but she had reached the cover of the tall timbers, where for the moment it was safe to go into camp, repair damages and take account of injuries.
But when I like I can be most unpleasant. Ask Olga Tcherny." Her gaze flickered then flared into steadiness as she said coolly. "I haven't the remotest idea what you're talking about." "Do you mean to say that you don't remember?" he asked smiling. "My memory is excellent. Perhaps I lack imagination. What should I remember?" "My studio in New York. You visited me with the Countess Tcherny."
He tried with some difficulty to analyze the precise nature of his sentiments toward Olga Tcherny, and found at the end of a quarter of an hour, to his surprise, that the only feeling of which he was conscious was one of dull resentment at her for having made a fool of him.
Olga Tcherny, who had now taken full possession of the studio, fell into its easiest chair and looked up at the painter with her caressing smile. "You've been working. You've got the fog of it on you. Are we de trop?" "Er no. It's in rather a mess here, that's all. I was working, but I'm quite willing to stop." "I'm afraid you've no further wish for me now that I'm no longer useful," she sighed.
Poor child! She had suffered and he, fool that he was, had sat in his studio, the victim of his false pride, wrapped in his own ego while this vile plot was brewing. He might have done something if he had had his wits about him, instead of hiding his head like an ostrich and imagining himself unseen. Olga he did not dare to think of Olga Tcherny or of De Folligny. He had given his word to Mrs.
"She borrowed a week from Immortality that, for once, she might be herself. She was free from this thralldom free!" "She worked hard," he went on after a moment, "and she earned what money she made. And so did I. But I was bothered. My sins were pursuing me. One day we saw upon the road a man Miss Challoner had met, and at Alenon " "Olga Tcherny?" asked Mrs. Hammond keenly.
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