"Plenty of mud," he remarked.
"Yes, I shall be a spectacle when I come back. Good-bye! Take care of yourself." Muriel's hand rested for an instant on his arm, and then she was gone—a slim, short-skirted figure walking swiftly over the grass.
He stood leaning on the gate watching her till a clump of trees intervened between them, then lazily he straightened himself and began to stroll back up the garden. He was not smoking. His face wore a heavy, almost a sullen, look. He scarcely raised his eyes from the ground as he walked.
Nearing the house the sudden sound of a window being raised made him look up, and in an instant, swift as a passing cloud-shadow, his moodiness was gone. Daisy was leaning on her window-sill, looking down upon him.
Though she had not spoken to him for weeks, she gave him no greeting.
Her voice even sounded a trifle sharp.
"What are you loafing there for?" she demanded. "Why didn't you go with Muriel to the hockey?"
He hesitated for a single instant. Then—for he never lied to
Daisy—quite honestly he made reply. "I didn't want to."
Her pale face frowned down at him, though the eyes had a soft light that was like a mother's indulgence for her wayward child.
"How absurd you are! How can you be so lazy? I won't have it, Blake.
Do you hear?"
He moved forward a few steps till he was immediately below her, and there stood with uplifted face. "What do you want me to do?"