Doesn't Max play the devoted
husband satisfactorily?"
Diana flushed.
"You've no right to talk like that, Olga, even in jest," she said, with
a little touch of matronly dignity that sat rather quaintly and sweetly
upon her. "I know you don't like Max--never have liked him--but please
recollect that you're speaking of my husband."
"You misunderstand me," replied the Russian, coolly, as she drew on her
gloves. "I _don't_ dislike him; but I do think he ought to be
perfectly frank with you. As you say, he is your husband"--pointedly.
"Perfectly frank with me?"
Miss Lermontof nodded.
"Yes."
"He has been," affirmed Diana.
"Has he, indeed? Have you ever asked him"--she paused
significantly--"who he is?"
"_Who he is_?" Diana felt her heart contract. What new mystery was
this at which the other was hinting?
"_Who he is_?" she repeated. "Why--why--what do you mean?"
The accompanists queer green eyes narrowed between their heavy lids.
"Ask him--that's all," she replied shortly.
She drew her furs around her shoulders preparatory to departure, but
Diana stepped in front of her, laying a detaining hand on her arm.
"What do you mean?" she demanded hotly. "Are you implying now that Max
is going about under a false name? I hate your hints! Always, always
you've tried to insinuate something against Max. . . . No!"--as the
Russian endeavoured to free herself from her clasp--"No! You shan't
leave this house till you've answered my question.
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