"He had his arm injured by a
sword-thrust at the very end of the campaign. He made light of it for
ever so long till things began to look serious. Then he had to give
in, and had a pretty sharp time of it, I believe. He's better again
now, though, so his brother told me this evening. I never heard any
details. I daresay he's all right again." He stooped to pick up a
completed sock that had fallen. "He's the sort of chap who always
comes out on top," he ended consolingly.
Muriel stiffened a little as she sat. She had a curious longing to
hear more, and an equally curious reluctance to ask for it.
"I never heard anything about it--naturally," she remarked.
Grange, having fitted the sock on to two fingers, was examining it
with a contemplative air. It struck her abruptly that he was trying to
say something. She waited silently, not without apprehension. She had
no idea as to how much he knew of what had passed between herself and
Nick.
"I say, Miss Roscoe," he blurted out suddenly, "do you hate talking
about these things--very badly, I mean?"
She looked up at him, and was surprised to see emotion on his face. It
had an odd effect upon her, placing her unaccountably at her ease with
him, banishing all her stiffness in a moment. She remembered with a
quick warmth at her heart how she had always liked this man in those
far-off days of her father's protection, how she had always found
something reassuring in his gentle courtesy.
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