he knew that mentally and physically he could take and break a dozen
Two-Hawks. Old! He had never thought himself that. Fifty-two
years; they had piled up on him without his appreciation of the
fullness of the score. And yet he was more than a match for any
ordinary man of thirty in sinew and brain; and no man met the new
morning with more zest than he himself met it. But to Kitty he was
old! Lavender and oak leaves were being draped on his door knob.
He laughed.

"Why do you laugh?"

"Oh, because - Hark!"

The two of them ran to the bedroom door.

"Olga! Olga!" And then a guttural level jumble of sounds.

Kitty's quick brain reached out for a similitude - water rushing
over ragged boulders.

"Olga!" she whispered. "He is a Russian!"

"There are Serbian Olgas and Bulgarian Olgas and Rumanian Olgas.
Probably his sweetheart."

"The poor thing!"

"Sounds like Russian," added Cutty, his conscience pricking him.
But he welcomed that "Olga." It would naturally put a damper on
Kitty's interest. "There's Harrison with the nurse.