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His hand with the broken needle in it was not withdrawn.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