“I’m content, and that’s a great thing,” he rejoined. “Indeed, I’ll confess that I could enjoy our stay here, except for the damping effect of our friends’ trouble. It’s astonishing how little one misses the comforts we insist on in England, and I’m coming to take an interest in the visits we pay among the ranches and our weekly trip to Sebastian. Then nobody could maintain that your sister looks any the worse for her experience. I’m beginning to think she might pass for a wheat-grower’s wife.”
“I heard Mrs. Johnson ask when you were going to take a farm,” Muriel retorted. “It would be difficult to imagine you tramping down a furrow behind a plow or driving one of those smelly gasoline tractors; but you’ll be able to pose before your constituents as an authority on colonial questions when you go home.”
“I’m afraid they’ll throw me over unless they see me soon; but there’s nothing else to take me back, and I’d feel we were deserting our friends in their distress.”
“We can’t leave them yet,” Mrs. Colston broke in. “The suspense is preying upon Jernyngham. He’s getting dangerously moody; I know Gertrude feels anxious about him.”
A curious expression crept into Muriel’s eyes.
“Believing what he does, it’s natural that he should clamor for justice, but he’s becoming possessed by a feverish cruelty. It’s mastering him, destroying his judgment.”
“You’re alluding to his suspicions of Prescott?”
Muriel’s eyes sparkled as she took up the challenge.
“You know as well as I do that they’re altogether wrong! It’s impossible that he should be guilty!”
“One would like to think so,” her sister responded with dry reserve. “But it’s a pity he ran away.”