“Blake!  Blake!  Come in!  You’ll get wet to the skin.”

He stopped at once, straightening his great frame with a sigh of relief.  Daisy was standing at the drawing-room window.

He pulled on his coat and went to join her.

She came to meet him with sharp reproach.  “Why are you so foolish?  I believe you would have gone on rolling if there had been an earthquake.  You must be wet through and through.”  She ran her little thin hand over him.  “Yes, I knew you were.  You must go and change.”

But Grange’s fingers closed with quiet intention upon her wrist.  He was looking down at her with the faithful adoration of a dumb animal.

“Not yet,” he said gently.  “Let me see you while I can.”

She made a quick movement as if his grasp hurt her, and in an instant she was free.

“Yes, but let us be sensible,” she said.  “Don’t let us talk about hard things.  I’m very tired, you know, Blake.  You must make it easy for me.”

There was a piteous note of appeal in her voice.  She sat down with her back to the light.  He could see that her hands were trembling, but because of her appeal he would not seem to see it.

“Don’t you think a change would be good for you?” he suggested.

“I don’t know,” she answered.  “Jim says so.  He wants me to go to Brethaven.  It’s only ten miles away, and he would motor over and look after me.  But I don’t think it much matters.  I’m not particularly fond of the sea.  And Muriel assures me she doesn’t mind.”

“Isn’t it at Brethaven that Nick Ratcliffe owns a place?” asked Grange.

“Yes.  Redlands is the name.  I went there once with Will.  It’s a beautiful place on the cliff—­quite thrown away on Nick, though, unless he marries, which he never will now.”

Grange looked uncomfortable.  “It’s not my fault,” he remarked bluntly.

“No, I know,” said Daisy, with a faint echo of her old light laugh.  “Nothing ever was, or could be, your fault, dear old Blake.  You’re just unlucky sometimes, aren’t you?  That’s all.”

Blake frowned a little.  “I play a straight game—­generally,” he said.

“Yes, dear, but you almost always drive into a bunker,” Daisy insisted.  “It’s not your fault, as we said before.  It’s just your misfortune.”

She never flattered Blake.  It was perhaps the secret of her charm for him.  To other women he was something of a paladin; to Daisy he was no more than a man—­a man moreover of many weaknesses, each one of which she knew, each one of which was in a fashion dear to her.

“We will have some tea, shall we?” she said, as he sat silently digesting her criticism.  “I must try and write to Will presently.  I haven’t written to him since—­since—­” She broke off short and began again.  “I got Muriel to write for me once.  But he keeps writing by every mail.  I wish he wouldn’t.”

Grange got up and walked softly to the window.  “When do you think of going back?” he asked.