direct. It reminded her of something, she could not remember what. She
wrestled with her memory vainly, and finally dismissed the matter with
slight annoyance, turning her attention to a wonderful coloured moth
that here flitted across her line of vision. It was an exquisite thing,
small, but red as coral. Only in this fairyland of Nick's had she ever
seen its like. Lightly it fluttered through the chequered light and
shade above the water, shining like a jewel above the shallows, the
loveliest thing in sight. And then, even under her watching eyes came
tragedy. Swift as an arrow, the green dragon-fly darted back again, and
in an instant flashed away. In that instant the coral butterfly vanished
also.

Olga exclaimed in incredulous horror. The happening had been too quick
for her eyes to follow, but her comprehension leaped to the truth. And
in that moment she realized what it was of which the dragon-fly reminded
her. It was of Max Wyndham sitting on the surgery-table watching her
with that mocking gleam in his green eyes, as though he knew her to be
at his mercy whether she stayed or fled.

It was unreasonable of course, but that fairy tragedy in the glen
increased her dislike of the man a hundredfold. She felt as if he had
darted into her life, armed in some fashion with the power to destroy.
And she longed almost passionately to turn him out; for no disturbing
force had ever entered there before. But she knew that she could not.

She went on up to the house in sober mood. It had been left to the care
of the servants since Nick's departure. She found a French window
standing open, and entered. It was the drawing-room, all swathed in
brown holland. Its dim coolness was very different from the stony chill
of the Priory. She looked around her with a restful feeling of being at