"It's only now and then," she said. "It's better than it used to be. Only somehow I got frightened when I heard that Nick was coming. I daresay—when I begin to get used to the idea—I shan't mind it quite so much. Never mind about my silly worries any more. No doubt I shall get wiser as I grow older."
She tried to laugh with the words, but somehow no laugh came. Grange's great hand closed very tightly upon hers, and she looked up in surprise.
Almost instantly he began to speak, very humbly, but also very resolutely. "Muriel," he said, "I'm an unutterable fool at expressing things. I can only say them straight out and hope for the best. You want a protector, don't you? And I—should like to be the one to protect you if—if it were ever possible for you to think of me in that light."
He spoke with immense effort. He was afraid of scaring her, afraid of hurting her desolate young heart, afraid almost of the very impulse that moved him to speak.
Absolute silence reigned when he ended.
Muriel had become suddenly rigid, and so still that she did not seem to breathe. For several seconds he waited, but still she made no sign. He had not the remotest clue to guide him. He began to feel as if a door had unexpectedly closed against him, not violently, but steadily, soundlessly, barring him out.
It was but a fleeting impression. In a few moments more it was gone.
She drew a long quivering breath, and turned slightly towards him.
"I would rather trust myself to you," she said, "than to any one else in the world."
She spoke in her deep, sincere voice which gave him no doubt that she meant what she said, and at once his own trepidation departed. He put his arm around her, and pressed her close to him.
"Come to me then," he said very tenderly. "And I will take such care of you, Muriel, that no one shall ever frighten you again."