Muriel scarcely noticed his attitude. Having at length broken through her barrier of reserve, she found a certain relief in speech.
"I might go away, of course," she said. "I expect I shall do that, for
I don't think I could endure it here. But I haven't many friends.
My year in India seemed to cut me off from every one. It's a little
difficult to know where to go. And then, too, there is Daisy."
She paused, and suddenly Grange spoke, with more abruptness than was his wont.
"Why do you think he is sure to seek you out? Did he ever say so?"
She shivered. "No, he never said so. But—but—in a way I feel it. He is so merciless. He always makes me think of an eagle swooping down on its prey. No doubt you think me very fanciful and ridiculous. Perhaps I am. But once—in the mountains—he told me that I belonged to him—that he would not let me go, and—and—I have never been able to forget it."
Her voice sank, and it seemed to Grange that she was crying in the darkness. Her utter forlornness pierced him to the heart. He leaned towards her, trying ineffectually to see her face.
"My dear little girl," he said gently, "don't be so distressed. He deserves to be kicked for frightening you like this."
"It's my own fault," she whispered back. "If I were stronger, or if Daddy were with me—it would be different. But I am all alone. There is no one to help me. I used to think it didn't matter what happened to me, but I am beginning to feel it does."
"Of course it does," Grange said. His hand felt along the rail for hers, and, finding them, held them closely. Her weakness gave him confidence. "Poor child!" he murmured softly. "Poor little girl! You do want some one to take care of you."
Muriel mastered herself with an effort. It was not often now that she gave way so completely.