The Keeper of the Door
"Why did you go to the Campions'?" she asked, barely restraining her irritation.
"That, fair lady," he coolly responded, "is a question which with regret I must decline to answer."
Olga flushed. "How absurd!" she said quickly. "Dad would tell me like a shot."
"I am not Dad," said the doctor's assistant, with unruffled urbanity. "Moreover, fair lady--"
"I prefer to be called by my name if you have no objection, Dr. Wyndham," cut in Olga, with rising wrath.
He smiled at something over her head. "Thank you, Olga. It saves trouble certainly. Would you like to call me by mine? Max is what I generally answer to."
Olga turned a vivid scarlet. "I am Miss Ratcliffe to you," she said.
He accepted the rebuff with unimpaired equanimity. "I thought it must be too good to be true. Pardon my presumption! When you are as old as I am you will realize how little it really matters. You are genuinely angry, I suppose? Not pretendi