She met his look, not without defiance. "Yes, and I meant it too. It's such a wicked waste. And I think--- I think--in her case it was something far worse. I believe it was that which in a very great measure helped to unhinge her mind." "How could I help it?" demanded Max almost fierily. "I never wanted her to care." "That was just the cruel part of it," said Olga. "It was just your utter indifference that broke her heart." "Good heavens!" said Max. He let her go very abruptly and leaned against one of the verandah posts as if he needed support. Olga tilted herself over the side of the hammock and stood up. "You couldn't help not caring," she said. "But--you might have been a little kinder. You needn't have made her hate and fear you." Max surveyed her grimly from under drawn brows. "My dear," he said, "you simply don't know what you are talking about." That fired her. A quiver of passion went suddenly through her. She faced him as she had faced him in the old days with a courage that sustained itself. "Indeed, I know!" she said. "Better than it is in your power to understand. Oh, I know now what made her--hate you so." The last words came with a rush, almost under her breath; but they were fully audible to the man lounging before her. He did not speak at once, and yet he did not give the impression of being at a loss. He continued to lounge while he contemplated her with eyes of steady inscrutability. He spoke at length with extreme deliberation. "And so you want to take me to task for breaking her heart, do you?" "She was my friend," said Olga quickly. He stood up slowly. "And would you have liked it better if I had made love to her?" She flinched as if that stung. "No--no! But you might have been kind--you might have been kind--since you knew she cared. If you hadn't made such a study of her, she would never have looked your way. That was the cruel part of it--the dreadful, cold-blooded part." "What do you mean by kind?" said Max. "You don't seem to realize that the poor girl was mad. If I had been soft with her she would have been beyond my control at once." "Oh, but she wasn't mad then," Olga's hands clasped each other tightly. "Max," she said, and there was no longer indignation in her voice--it held only pain, "I'm afraid you and I have a good deal to answer for." "Perhaps," said Max. He was frowning still; but he did not appear angry. She did not wholly understand either his look or tone. "I suppose she thought I treated her badly," he said. Olga nodded silently. "She told you so?" His voice sounded stern; yet, still he did not seem to be angry. "No, never." Almost involuntarily she answered him. "But she did say--once--that you cared only for your profession, that it was not in you to--to worship any woman." "And you think that too?" he said. His voice was softer now; it moved her subtly. She turned her face away from him and stifled a sob in her throat.