But Olga lingered to whisper vehemently in Nick's ear.
He laughed and shook his head. "Go, child, go! You don't know anything about it. And Muriel is waiting. You should never keep a guest waiting."
Olga went reluctantly. They passed out into the clear June sunshine together and down towards the shady shrubberies beyond the lawns.
"Can Nick play tennis?" Muriel asked, as they crossed a marked-out court.
"Yes, he can do anything," the child said proudly. "He was on horseback this morning, and he managed splendidly. We generally play tennis in the evening. He almost always wins. His services are terrific. I can't think how he does it. He calls it juggling. I try to manage with only one hand sometimes—just to keep him company—but I always make a mess of things. There's no one in the world as clever as Nick."
Muriel felt inclined to agree with her, though in her opinion this distinguishing quality was not an altogether admirable one. She infinitely preferred people with fewer brains. She would not, however, say this to Olga, and they paced on together under the trees in silence. Suddenly a warm hand slid within her arm, and Olga's grey eyes, very loving and wistful, looked up into hers.
"Muriel darling," she whispered softly, "don't you—don't you—like
Nick after all?"
The colour rushed over Muriel's face in a vivid flood.
"Like him! Like him!" she stammered. "Why do you ask?"
"Because, dear—don't be vexed, I love you frightfully—you did hurt him so at lunch," explained Olga, pressing very close to her.