Say you'll come,
Muriel."
Muriel scarcely heard her. She was looking down into Nick's face,
seeking, seeking for the hundredth time, to read that baffling mask.
"Don't refuse," he said again. "You'll get nothing but underdone chops
at the inn here, and I can't imagine that to be a weakness of yours."
She gave up her fruitless search. "I will come," she said.
"It's exactly as you like, you know, Muriel," Grange put in awkwardly.
She understood the precise meaning of Nick's laugh. She even for a
moment wanted to laugh herself. "Thank you. I should like to," she
said.
Nick nodded and turned aside. "Olga, stop capering," he ordered, "and
drive me home."
Olga obeyed him promptly, with the gaiety of a squirrel. As Nick
seated himself by her side, Muriel saw her turn impulsively and rub
her cheek against his shoulder. It gave her a queer little tingling
shock to see the child's perfect confidence in him. But then--but
then--Olga had never looked on horror, had never seen the devil leap
out in naked fury upon her hero's face.
They waited to let the car go first, Olga proudly grasping the wheel;
then, trotting briskly, followed in its wake.
Muriel had an uneasy feeling that Blake wanted to apologise, and she
determined that he should not have the opportunity. Each time that
he gave any sign of wishing to draw nearer to her, she touched her
horse's flank.
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