“But, my dear Blake,” she said, after a moment, “she is not for you.”

“What do you mean?” Grange’s jaw suddenly set itself.  He squared his great shoulders as if instinctively bracing himself to meet opposition.

“I mean”—­Daisy spoke very quietly and emphatically—­“I mean, Blake, that she is Nick’s property.  She belonged to Nick before ever you thought of wanting her.  I never dreamed that you would do anything so shabby as to step in at the last moment, just when Nick is coming home, and cut him out.  How could you do such a thing, Blake?  But surely it isn’t irrevocable?  You can’t have said anything definite?”

Grange’s face had become very stern.  He no longer avoided her eyes.  For once he was really angry, and showed it.

“You make a mistake,” he told her curtly.  “I have done nothing whatever of which I am ashamed, or of which any man could be ashamed.  Certainly I have taken a definite step.  I have proposed to her, and she has accepted me.  With regard to Nick Ratcliffe, I believe myself that the fellow is something of a blackguard, but in any case she both fears and hates him.  He can have no shadow of a right over her.”

“You forget that he saved her life,” said Daisy.

“Is she to hold herself at his disposal on that account?  I must say I fail to see the obligation.”

There was even a hint of scorn in Grange’s tone.  At sound of it, Daisy turned round and laid her hand winningly upon his arm.

“Dear old boy,” she said gently, “don’t be angry.  I’m not against you.”

He softened instantly.  It was not in him to harbour resentment against a woman.  He took her hand, and heaved a deep sigh.

“No, Daisy,” he said half sadly, “you mustn’t be against me.  I always count on you.”

Daisy laughed a little wistfully.  “Always did, dear, didn’t you?  Well, tell me some more.  What made you propose all of a sudden like this?  Are you—­very much in love?”

He looked at her.  “Perhaps not quite as we used to understand the term,” he said, seeming to speak half-reluctantly.

“Oh, we were very extravagant and foolish,” rejoined Daisy lightly.  “I didn’t mean quite in that way, Blake.  You at least are past the age for such feathery nonsense, or should be.  I was—­aeons and aeons ago.”

“Were you?” he said, and still he looked at her half in wonder, it seemed, and half in regret.

Daisy nodded at him briskly.  The colour had come back to her face.  “Yes, I have arrived at years of discretion,” she assured him.  “And I quite agree with Solomon that childhood and youth are vanity.  But now let us talk about this.  Is she in love with you, I wonder?  I must be remarkably blind not to have seen it.  How in the world I shall ever face Nick again, I can’t imagine.”

Grange frowned.  “I’m getting a bit tired of Nick,” he said moodily.  “He crops up everywhere.”

Daisy’s face flushed.  “Don’t you ever again say a word against him in my hearing,” she said.  “For I won’t bear it.  He may not be handsome like you; but for all that, he’s about the finest man I know.”