They were walking back from church together by a muddy field-path, and since neither had much to say at any time, they had accomplished more than half the distance in silence.
"I know you do ride," Grange explained, "and it's just the sort of country for a good gallop now and then. Daisy isn't allowed to, but I thought perhaps you—"
"Oh, I should like to, of course," Muriel said. "I haven't done any riding since I left Simla. I didn't care to alone."
"Ah! Lady Bassett rides, doesn't she? She is an accomplished horsewoman, I believe?"
"I don't know," Muriel's reply was noticeably curt. "I never rode with her."
Grange at once dropped the subject, and they became silent again. Muriel walked with her eyes fixed straight before her. But she did not see the brown earth underfoot or the bare trees that swayed overhead in the racing winter wind. She was back again in the heart of the Simla pines, hearing horses' feet that stamped below her window in the dawning, and a gay, cracked voice that sang.
Her companion's voice recalled her. "I suppose Daisy will stay here for the summer."
"I suppose so," she answered.
Grange went on with some hesitation. "The little chap doesn't look as if he would ever stand the Indian climate. What will happen? Will she ever consent to leave him with the Ratcliffes?"
"I am quite certain she won't," Muriel answered, with unfaltering conviction. "She simply lives for him."