"Get a conveyance and take me home," she moaned.
"Perish the thought," Tchigorsky cried. "Would the Ravenspurs outrage the sacred name of hospitality like that? Circumstances compel the life of the cloister and the recluse, but there are limits. Suspicious as the family must be, I am sure they would not fear an unfortunate lady with a sprained ankle."
"Of course not," Geoffrey observed. "I will go and prepare them."
He had read that suggestion in Tchigorsky's eyes. Heedless of Mrs. May's protests, he had vanished toward the house. Tchigorsky had stooped and taken the woman in his arms as if she had been a child.
"What a precious burden!" he said. "Scarred and battered, old Tchigorsky is a fortunate man, madam. There, you need not struggle; your little fluttering heart has no occasion to beat like that. I am not going to throw you over the cliffs."
The last few words were uttered in tones of smothered ferocity.
"You are a devil," the woman muttered.
"Ay, you are right there. Never was the devil stronger in my heart than he is at this moment. Never was I more tempted to pitch you over the terrace into the sea. But there is worse than that waiting for you."
"What are you going to do with me?"
"I am going to carry you into the house; I am going to introduce you formally to the family of Ravenspur. I am doing you a kindness. Think how useful the information afforded you will be later!"