"You can't do it, I'm afraid, my lord. She's too hurt to be moved."
"Don't listen to him, Yorke!" Finetta's voice came to them. "Take me home."
A long slight table stood in the passage. Yorke wrenched the legs off and called to a couple of carpenters. Then, with the help of the manager and dresser, he laid Finetta on this impromptu stretcher and carried her to the brougham which was waiting outside.
"Drive slowly," he said to the man.
"No, let him go fast," panted Finetta. "I can bear it," and she clenched her teeth. Yorke sat beside her and supported her, and she lay with her head on his shoulder, her teeth set hard, her hands grasping each other, and no cry or groan passed her lips.
At the sound of the brougham wheels Polly came to the door, and uttered a cry of alarm at the sight of her sister lying limp and helpless in Yorke's arms.
"Oh, Lord Yorke!" she gasped.
"Don't be frightened, Polly," he said. "Finetta has met with an accident."
They carried her upstairs.