ers closed with quiet intention upon her wrist. He
was looking down at her with the faithful adoration of a dumb animal.

"Not yet," he said gently. "Let me see you while I can."

She made a quick movement as if his grasp hurt her, and in an instant
she was free.

"Yes, but let us be sensible," she said. "Don't let us talk about hard
things. I'm very tired, you know, Blake. You must make it easy for
me."

There was a piteous note of appeal in her voice. She sat down with
her back to the light. He could see that her hands were trembling, but
because of her appeal he would not seem to see it.

"Don't you think a change would be good for you?" he suggested.

"I don't know," she answered. "Jim says so. He wants me to go to
Brethaven. It's only ten miles away, and he would motor over and look
after me. But I don't think it much matters. I'm not particularly fond
of the sea. And Muriel assures me she doesn't mind."

"Isn't it at Brethaven that Nick Ratcliffe owns a place?" asked
Grange.

"Yes. Redlands is the name. I went there once with Will. It's a
beautiful place on the cliff--quite thrown away on Nick, though,
unless he marries, which he never will now."

Grange looked uncomfortable. "It's not my fault," he remarked bluntly.

"No, I know," said Daisy, with a faint echo of her old light laugh.
"Nothing ever was, or could be, your fault, dear old Blake. You're
just unlucky sometimes, aren't you? That's all."

Blake frowned a little. "I play a straight game--generally," he said.

"Yes, dear, but you almost always drive into a bunker," Daisy
insisted. "It's not your fault, as we said before. It's just your
misfortune."

She never flattered Blake. It was perhaps the secret of her charm for
him. To other women he was something of a paladin; to Daisy he was no
more than a man--a man moreover of many weaknesses, each one of which
she knew, each one of which was in a fashion dear to her.

"We will have some tea, shall we?" she said, as he sat silently
digesting her criticism. "I must try and write to Will presently. I
haven't written to him since--since--" She broke off short and began
again. "I got Muriel to write for me once. But he keeps writing by
every mail. I wish he wouldn't."

Grange got up and walked softly to the window. "When do you think of
going back?" he asked.

"I don't know." There was a keen note of irritation in the reply.
Daisy leaned suddenly forward, her fingers locked together. "You
might