He rose to his feet with difficulty. His face was ghastly with nausea.
“You are in no state,” said the girl—“your honour is in no state to go alone. Come and rest awhile at the inn, and wend back in an hour or so.”
“I believe you are right,” he muttered stupidly. “Give me your arm, Betty, and lead me on. I’m blind and weak as a new-born kitten. But Mr. Breeds must be called to a reckoning by and by.”
“Yes, yes!” she cried—“but not now.”
She walked by his side, helping him so far as she could. It took them long, short distance as it was, to reach the inn. Once there, she led him up to a fresh-smelling guest-room, with a great four-poster in it, and wishing him sleep and a quick recovery, shut him in and went about to see to his horse.
All the morning and into the afternoon her heart sang in her breast like a robin. She was busy in the bar by herself when her gentleman walked in, refreshed, in his right mind, and very fairly recovered of his unintended debauch. He put out his hand and took one of hers into its grasp, firmly and caressingly, while she looked down and was busy over something with the point of her sandal.
“Betty,” said Mr. Tuke, “it has come to me that you pulled my heel out of the stirrup this morning. I was too befuddled at the time to realize it.”
She gazed up at him, her breath coming quickly, a scared entreating look on her flushed face.
“No,” he answered gravely to the mute appeal. “I’m not going to offer you money. I’ve been a sinner, Betty, but I’m a gentleman. Only I shall remember, my dear—I shall remember.”
He bent and kissed the warm hand courteously. It trembled against his lips before he released it. Then he turned and walked out of the bar without another word.