"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 as well ask me when I think of dying," she said, with abrupt and
startling bitterness.
Grange remained stationary, not looking at her. "Is it as indefinite
as that?" he asked presently.
"Yes, quite." She spoke recklessly, even defiantly. "Where would be
the use of my going to a place I couldn't possibly live in for more
than four months in the year? Besides--besides--" But again, as if
checked by some potent inner influence, she broke off short.
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