He winced a little, but his arms did not slacken their hold; rather they tightened slightly. “Never hit with an open palm, Clorinda,” he told her. “I will show you how in a minute. Up with you!”
Miss Taverner was tossed up into the curricle, and collapsed on to the seat in some disorder. The gentleman in the caped greatcoat picked up her parasol and gave it to her, took the sandal from her resistless grasp, and calmly held it ready to fit on to her foot.
To struggle for possession of it would be an undignified business; to climb down from the curricle was impossible. Miss Taverner, quivering with temper, put out her stockinged foot. He slipped the sandal on, and tied the string.
“Thank you!” said Miss Taverner with awful civility. “Now if you will give me your hand out of your carriage I may resume my walk.”
“But I am not going to give you my hand,” he said. “I am going to drive you back to Grantham.”
His tone provoked her to reply disdainfully: “You may think that a great honour, sir, but—”
“It is a great honour,” he said. “I never drive females.”
“No,” said his tiger suddenly. “Else I wouldn’t be here. Not a minute I wouldn’t.”
“Henry, you see, is a misogynist,” explained the gentleman, apparently not in the least annoyed by this unceremonious interruption.
“I am not interested in you or in your servant!” snapped Miss Taverner.