The sudden silence with which this airy remark was received had in it something tragic. Muriel had sunk down on a garden-bench close at hand, lacking the strength to go away. It was exactly what she had expected. He meant to take his revenge in his own peculiar fashion. She had laid herself open to this, and mercilessly, unerringly, he had availed himself of the opportunity to wound. She might have known! She might have known! Had he not done it again and again? Oh, she had been a fool—a fool—to call him back!
Through the wild hurry of her thoughts his voice pierced once more. It had an odd inflection that was curiously like a note of concern.
"I say, Muriel, are you crying?"
"Crying!" She pulled herself together hastily. "No! Why should I?"
"I can tell you why you shouldn't," he answered whimsically. "No one ever ought to cry before breakfast. It's shocking for the appetite and may ruin the complexion for the rest of the day. Besides,—you've nothing to cry for."
"Oh, don't be absurd!" she flung back again almost fiercely. "I'm not crying!"
"Quite sure?" said Nick.
"Absolutely certain," she declared.
"All right then," he rejoined. "That being so, you had better dry your eyes very carefully, for I am coming to see for myself."