"Don't—don't bar me out of your confidence," Daisy implored her tremulously. "There is so little left for me to do now. Muriel—dearest—you do love him?"
Muriel moved impulsively, hiding her face in her friend's neck. But she said no word in answer.
Daisy went on softly, as though she had spoken. "He is still waiting for you. I think he will wait all his life, though he will never come to you again unless you call him. Won't you—can't you—send him just one little word?"
"How can I?" The words broke suddenly from Muriel as though she could no longer restrain them. "How can I possibly?"
"It could be done," Daisy said. "I know he is still somewhere in India though he has left the Army. We could get a message to him at any time."
"Oh, but I couldn't—I couldn't!" Muriel had begun to tremble violently. There was a sound of tears in her deep voice. "Besides—he wouldn't come."
"My dear, he would," Daisy assured her. "He would come to you directly if he only knew that you wanted him. Muriel, surely you are not—not too proud to let him know!"
"Proud! Oh, no, no!" There was almost a moan in the words. Muriel's head sank a little lower. "Heaven knows I'm not proud," she said. "I am ashamed—miserably ashamed. I have trampled on his love so often—so often. How could I ask him for it—now?"
"Ah, but if he came to you," Daisy persisted, "if in spite of all he came to you, you wouldn't send him away?"
"Send him away!" A sudden note of passion thrilled in Muriel's voice. She lifted her head sharply. With the tears upon her cheeks she yet spoke with a certain exultation. "I—I would follow him barefoot across the world," she said, "if—if he would only lift one finger to call me. But oh, Daisy,"—her confidence vanished at a breath—"where's the use of talking? He never, never will."