He loosened his hold of her, and she said, in a voice full of tenderness:
“You are trembling, dear.”
“It’s the ride. I’ve never stopped.”
Without further words she took him into the house.
“How pale you are—see, lie on the couch—never mind the dust. All right, I’ll find you a coat of Cyril’s. O, mother, he’s come all those miles in the car without stopping—make him lie down.”
She ran and brought him a jacket, and put the cushions round, and made him lie on the couch. Then she took off his boots and put slippers on his feet. He lay watching her all the time; he was white with fatigue and excitement.
“I wonder if I shall be had up for scorching—I can feel the road coming at me yet,” he said.
“Why were you so headlong?”
“I felt as if I should go wild if I didn’t come—if I didn’t rush. I didn’t know how you might have taken me, Lettie—when I said—what I did.”
She smiled gently at him, and he lay resting, recovering, looking at her.
“It’s a wonder I haven’t done something desperate—I’ve been half mad since I said—Oh, Lettie, I was a damned fool and a wretch—I could have torn myself in two. I’ve done nothing but curse and rage at myself ever since. I feel as if I’d just come up out of hell. You don’t know how thankful I am, Lettie, that you’ve not—oh—turned against me for what I said.”
She went to him and sat down by him, smoothing his hair from his forehead, kissing him, her attitude
