"Only an ass in a lion's skin, my dear Daisy," said Grange modestly.
She laughed. "An excellent simile, my worthy cousin. I wish I had thought of it myself."
She went lightly away with this thrust, and Grange, after a brief pause, turned slowly back into the room.
Muriel was seated in a low chair before the fire. She was working at some tiny woollen socks, knitting swiftly in dead silence.
He moved to the hearthrug, and stood there, obviously ill at ease. A certain shyness was in his nature, and Muriel's nervousness reacted upon him. He did not know how to break the silence.
At length, with an effort, he spoke. "You heard about Nick Ratcliffe's wound, I expect, Miss Roscoe?"
Muriel's hands leapt suddenly and fell into her lap. "Nick Ratcliffe!
When was he wounded? No, I have heard nothing."
He looked down at her with an uneasy suspicion that he had lighted upon an unfortunate subject.
"I thought you would have heard," he said. "Didn't Daisy know? He came back to us from Simla—got himself attached to the punitive expedition. I was on the sick list myself, so did not see him, but they say he fought like a dancing dervish, and did a lot of damage too. Every one thought he would have the V.C., but there was a rumour that he refused it."
"And—he was wounded, you say?" Muriel's voice sounded curiously strained. Her knitting lay jumbled together in her lap. Her dark face was lifted, and it seemed to Grange, unskilled observer though he was, that he had never seen deeper tragedy in any woman's eyes.