Youth and health, and a dawning, unconscious beauty had sprung to life
upon her face. She was no longer the frightened, bereft child of Simla
days. She no longer hid a monstrous fear in her heart. She had put it
all away from her wisely, resolutely, as a tale that is told.
The wild wind had blown the hair all loose about her face by the time
the last goal was won. Hatless, flushed, and laughing, she drew back
from the fray, Olga, elated by victory, clinging to her arm. It was a
moment of keen triumph, for the fight had been hard, and she enjoyed
it to the full as she stood there with her face to the sudden,
scudding rain. The glow of exercise had braced every muscle. Every
pulse was beating with warm, vigorous life.
She laughed aloud in sheer exultation, a low, merry laugh, and turned
with Olga to march in triumphant procession from the field.
In that instant from a gate a few yards away that led into the road
there sounded the short, imperious note of a motor-horn, repeated many
times in a succession of sharp blasts. Every one stood to view the
intruder with startled curiosity for perhaps five seconds. Then there
came a sudden squeal of rapture from Olga, and in a moment she had
torn her arm free and was gone, darting like a swallow over the turf.
Muriel stood looking after her, but she was as one turned to stone.
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