"No, Nick. She never said that, indeed. I wouldn't have cared if she had. It was only—only—"
"I know," he broke in abruptly. "If it wasn't that, there is only one thing left that it could have been. I don't want you to tell me. It's as plain as daylight. Let me tell you instead. It's all for the sake of your poor little personal pride. I know—yes, I know. They've been throwing mud at you, and it's stuck. You'd sooner die than marry me, wouldn't you? But what will you do if I refuse to set you free?"
She turned suddenly crimson. "You—you wouldn't, Nick! You couldn't!
You haven't—the right."
"Haven't I?" said Nick, with an odd smile. "I thought I had."
He looked down at her, and a queer little flame leaped up like an evil spirit in his eyes, flickered an instant, and was gone. "I thought I had," he said again, in a different tone. "But we won't quarrel about that. Tell me what you want to do."
Her answer came with a vehemence that perhaps he had hardly expected. "Oh, I want to get away—right away. I want to go home. I—I hate this place."
"And every one in it?" suggested Nick.
"Almost." Muriel spoke recklessly, even defiantly. She was fighting for her freedom, and the battle was infinitely harder than she had anticipated.
He nodded. "The sole exception being Mrs. Musgrave. Do you know Mrs.
Musgrave is going home? You would like to go with her."
Muriel looked at him with sudden hope. "Alone with her?" she said.