"No," she admitted rather grudgingly. "I don't think you are afraid of anyone or anything. But it is a pity you spoil things by being so--unfriendly." "Are you speaking on Mrs. Briggs's behalf or your own?" asked Max. She met his eyes with a feeling of reluctance. "Well, I do hate quarrelling," she said. "I never quarrel," said Max placidly. "Oh, but you do!" she exclaimed. "How can you say such a thing?" "No, I don't!" said Max. "I go my own way, that's all. If anyone tries to stop me, well, they get knocked down and trampled on. I don't call that quarrelling. It simply happens in the natural course of things." "No wonder people don't like you!" said Olga. "Don't you like me?" said Max. He put the question with obvious indifference, yet his green eyes still studied her critically. Olga poured out some water with a hand so shaky that it splashed over. He reached forward and dabbed it up with his table-napkin. "Well?" he said. "I don't know," she murmured somewhat incoherently. "Don't know! But you knew this morning!" The green eyes suddenly laughed at her. "I say, don't try to drink that yet!" he said. "You'll choke if you do. Go on! Tell me some more about Mrs. Briggs! Did she give you any of that filthy concoction she calls rhubarb wine?" "It isn't filthy! It's delicious," declared Olga. "You can't have tasted it." "Oh, yes, I had some the day the old woman died. In fact, I was trying to sleep off the effects that afternoon, when you caught me in Uncle Nick's library. It's horribly strong stuff. I suppose that is what made you so late for luncheon?" "Indeed, it wasn't! We went to the Priory before coming home." "Oh! What for?" "Some things Violet wanted." "What things?" said Max. She looked at him in surprise. "I'm sure I don't know. I'm not so inquisitive as you are. You had better ask Violet." "Ask me what?" said Violet, detaching her attention from Major Hunt-Goring for a moment. "Nothing," said Max. "I was only wondering how many glasses of rhubarb wine you had at 'The Ship.'" Carelessly he rallied her on the subject, carelessly let it pass. And Olga was left with a newly-awakened doubt at her heart. What was the reason for the keen interest he took in her friend? Had he really told her the truth when repudiating the possibility of his falling in love with her? She fancied he had; and if so, why was he so anxious to inform himself of her most trivial doings? It was a puzzle to Olga--a puzzle that for some reason gave her considerable uneasiness. Against her will and very deep down within her, she was aware of a lurking distrust that made her afraid of Max Wyndham. She felt as if he were watching to catch her off her guard, ready at a moment's notice to turn to his own purposes any rash confidence into which she might be betrayed. And she told herself with passionate self-reproach that she had already been guilty of disloyalty to her friend.