The Keeper of the Door. Ethel M. Dell
she said.
"You seem in a mighty hurry to get rid of me," he said, without moving.
She laid her mending upon the grass and rose. "I am busy—as you see," she returned.
He looked at her for a moment, then very deliberately followed her example. He stood looking down at her from his great height, a speculative smile on his face.
"You've soon had enough of me, what?" he suggested.
Olga's pale eyes gleamed for an instant like steel suddenly bared to the sun. She said nothing whatever, merely stood before him very stiff and straight, plainly waiting for him to go.
"It's a pity to outstay one's welcome," he said. "I wouldn't do that for the world. But what about that kiss you offered me just now?"
"I?" said Olga, quivering disdain in the word.
"You, my little spitfire!" he said genially. "And it won't be the first time, what? Come now! You're always running away, but you should reflect that you're bound to be caught sooner or later. You didn't think I was going to let you off, did you?"
She stood before him speechless, with clenched hands.
He drew a little nearer. "You pay your debts, don't you? And what more suitable opportunity than the present? You are so elusive nowadays. Why, I haven't seen you except from afar since last Christmas. You were always such a nice, sociable little girl till then."
"Sociable!" whispered Olga.
"Well, you were!" He laughed again in his easy fashion. "Don't you remember what fun we had at the Rectory on Christmas Eve, and how you came to tea with me on the sly a few days after, and how we kissed under the mistletoe, and how you promised—"
"I promised nothing!" burst out Olga, with flashing eyes.
"Oh, pardon me! You promised to kiss me again some day. Have you forgotten? I hardly think your memory is as short as that."
He drew nearer still, and slipped a cajoling arm about her. "Why are we in such a towering rage, I wonder? Surely you don't want to repudiate your liabilities! You promised, you know."
She flung up a desperate face to his. "Very well, Major Hunt-Goring," she said breathlessly. "Take it—and go!"
He bent to her. "But you must give," he said.
"Very well," she said again. "It—it will be the last!"
"Will it?" he questioned, pausing. "In that case, I feel almost inclined to postpone the pleasure, particularly as—"
"Don't torture me!" she said in a whisper half—choked.
Her eyes were tightly shut; but Hunt-Goring's were looking over her head, and a sudden gleam of malicious humour shone in them. He turned them upon the white, shrinking face of the girl who stood rigid but unresisting within the circle of his arm. And then very suddenly he bent and kissed her on the lips.
She shivered through and through and broke from him with her hands over her face.
"But you didn't pay your debt, you know," said Hunt-Goring amiably. "I won't trouble you now, however, as we are no longer alone. Another day—in a more secluded spot—"
No longer alone! Olga looked up with a gasp. Her face was no longer pale, but flaming red. She seemed to be burning from head to foot.
And there, not a dozen paces from her, was Maxwell Wyndham, carelessly approaching, his hands in his pockets, his hat thrust to the back of his head, a faint, supercilious smile cocking one corner of his mouth, his whole bearing one of elaborate unconsciousness.
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!"
"I apologize," said Max.
Olga smiled faintly. "It's horrid of you to talk like that."
"It's me," said Max.
She dried the last of her tears. "What—what did you do with him?"
"Packed him into the motor and told Mitchel to drive him home."
"I wish Mitchel would run into something and kill him!" said Olga, with sudden vehemence.
Max's brows went up. "Afraid I didn't give Mitchel instructions to that effect."
He spoke without raising his eyes, being quite obviously intent upon his darning. Olga watched him for a few seconds in silence. Finally she gave herself a slight shake and rose.
"You're doing that on the right side," she said.
"It's the best way to approach this kind of hole," said Max.
She came and stood by his side, still closely watching him.
"Dr. Wyndham!" she said at last, her voice