At length, with an effort, he spoke.  “You heard about Nick Ratcliffe’s wound, I expect, Miss Roscoe?”

Muriel’s hands leapt suddenly and fell into her lap.  “Nick Ratcliffe!  When was he wounded?  No, I have heard nothing.”

He looked down at her with an uneasy suspicion that he had lighted upon an unfortunate subject.

“I thought you would have heard,” he said.  “Didn’t Daisy know?  He came back to us from Simla—­got himself attached to the punitive expedition.  I was on the sick list myself, so did not see him, but they say he fought like a dancing dervish, and did a lot of damage too.  Every one thought he would have the V.C., but there was a rumour that he refused it.”

“And—­he was wounded, you say?” Muriel’s voice sounded curiously strained.  Her knitting lay jumbled together in her lap.  Her dark face was lifted, and it seemed to Grange, unskilled observer though he was, that he had never seen deeper tragedy in any woman’s eyes.

Somewhat reluctantly he made reply.  “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.

“No,” she said, after a moment, speaking with absolute sincerity.  “I can’t bear to with—­most people; but I don’t think I mind with you.”

She saw his pleasant smile for an instant.  He laid the sock down upon her knee, and in doing so touched and lightly pressed her hand.

“Thank you,” he said simply.  “I know I’m not good at expressing myself, but please believe that I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.  Miss Roscoe, I have brought some things with me I think you will like to have—­things that belonged to your father.  Sir Reginald Bassett entrusted them to me—­left them, in fact, in my charge, as he found them.  I was coming home, and I asked leave to bring them to you.  Perhaps you would like me to fetch them?”