“You and Blake are both to go,” she said.  “I won’t have either of you staying at home for me.”

But Blake, when Muriel conveyed this message to him, moodily shook his head.  “I’m not going.  I don’t want to.  You must, of course.  It will do you good.  But I couldn’t play if I went.  I’ve strained my wrist.”

“Oh, have you?” Muriel said, with concern.  “What a nuisance!  How did you manage it?”

He reddened, and looked slightly ashamed.  “I vaulted the gate into the meadow this morning.  Idiotic thing to do.  But I shall be all right.  Never mind about me.  I shall smoke in the garden.  I may go for a walk.”

Thus pressed on all sides, though decidedly against her own inclination, Muriel went.  The day was showery with brilliant intervals.  Grange saw her off at the field-gate.

“Plenty of mud,” he remarked.

“Yes, I shall be a spectacle when I come back.  Good-bye!  Take care of yourself.”  Muriel’s hand rested for an instant on his arm, and then she was gone—­a slim, short-skirted figure walking swiftly over the grass.

He stood leaning on the gate watching her till a clump of trees intervened between them, then lazily he straightened himself and began to stroll back up the garden.  He was not smoking.  His face wore a heavy, almost a sullen, look.  He scarcely raised his eyes from the ground as he walked.

Nearing the house the sudden sound of a window being raised made him look up, and in an instant, swift as a passing cloud-shadow, his moodiness was gone.  Daisy was leaning on her window-sill, looking down upon him.

Though she had not spoken to him for weeks, she gave him no greeting.  Her voice even sounded a trifle sharp.

“What are you loafing there for?” she demanded.  “Why didn’t you go with Muriel to the hockey?”

He hesitated for a single instant.  Then—­for he never lied to Daisy—­quite honestly he made reply.  “I didn’t want to.”

Her pale face frowned down at him, though the eyes had a soft light that was like a mother’s indulgence for her wayward child.

“How absurd you are!  How can you be so lazy?  I won’t have it, Blake.  Do you hear?”

He moved forward a few steps till he was immediately below her, and there stood with uplifted face.  “What do you want me to do?”

“Do!” echoed Daisy.  “Why, anything—­anything rather than nothing.  There’s the garden-roller over there by the tool-shed.  Go and get it, and roll the lawn.”

He went off obediently without another word, and presently the clatter of the roller testified to his submissive fulfilment of her command.  He did not look up again.  Simply, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves turned above his elbows, he tackled his arduous task, labouring up and down in the soft spring rain, patient and tireless as an ox.

He had accomplished about half his job when again Daisy’s voice broke imperiously in upon him.