"Not one," said Martin. He looked across into Grizel's eyes, and Grizel looked back at him, and in that glance was concentrated all the poetry, and all the music and all the pure and lovely things that have lived and blossomed, since the beginning of time. But the Squire saw none of it, because his eyes were blind. "Don't be a fool!" he continued bluffly, addressing himself to his guest. "The time will pass twice as quickly if you've something to do. We'll be back for lunch; that will give you time to walk comfortably to the station. As a matter of fact, my dear fellow, you're bound to come, for we've fixed up the game. We'll let you off to-morrow, but you can't chuck us to-day!" He turned back into the house to collect his clubs, which lay in the gun-room half a dozen yards away. Martin and Grizel followed, and for the moment Cassandra and Dane were alone. She stood still and rigid, her hands clasping the rail of the verandah, her eyes staring straight ahead. Peignton drew nearer; so near that his arm almost touched hers. His heart pounded within him with sickening thuds. It seemed to him that if she would give him one glance of understanding and sympathy, he could hold himself in, as he had done a dozen times before, but she stood immovable, vouchsafing no sign, and suddenly he found himself at the end of his endurance. He bent his head to hers, and his voice came in a thick, broken whisper: "_I wish to God_!" he gasped, "_I could break my ankle again_!" The next moment the Squire returned calling loudly for Martin to follow. The three men shouldered their clubs, and crunched down the garden path. That afternoon at tea-time, Teresa arrived. CHAPTER TWENTY ONE. "THIN-SPUN LIFE." During the next two days Grizel was haunted by a prevision of danger. She rose with it in the morning, carried it in her heart all day, was pursued by it in her dreams. On the surface all seemed smooth and placid,--a pretty house, a charming garden, a party of friends enjoying the summer weather. There were games, there was laughter, there was a flow of words, but beneath it all, her sensitive nature sensed the rumbling of a storm. The third morning the sun blazed from a cloudless sky, but within and without the air was still and lifeless, and the members of the house party, gathered round the breakfast table, showed signs of an unrefreshing night in pale and listless faces. Conversation flagged, and Grizel sounded a frank note of warning: "I'm in a vile temper. Be careful, all of you. If anyone annoys me, I'll snap. Nothing seems right this morning. Martin, the shape of your head gets on my nerves! I can't think _why_ I married you." "Neither can I, darling. Have some cream!" Martin carried the jug round the table, and tried to pour cream over a plate of strawberries, but Grizel pushed him aside.