“Yes, I would,” said Sir Richard. “Are you going to get out, or are you not?”
A man in a plum-coloured coat recommended Sir Richard to dust the young rascal’s jacket for him. Pen stared up at Sir Richard, read the determination behind the amusement in his face, and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet, and out of the stuffy coach.
“P’raps when you’ve quite finished, your honour, you’ll be so werry obliging as to move that curricle of yourn!” said the coachman sardonically.
“Richard, I can’t go back!” Pen said in a frantic undertone. “That Runner caught me in Bristol, and I only just contrived to escape!”
“Ah, that must have been what Cedric was trying to tell me!” said Sir Richard, walking up to the bays, and backing them to the side of the road. “So you were arrested, were you? What a splendid adventure for you, my little one!”
“And I have left your cloak-bag behind, and it’s no use trying to drag me away with you, because I won’t go! I won’t, I won’t!”
“Why won’t you?” asked Sir Richard, turning to look down at her.
She found herself unable to speak. There was an expression in Sir Richard’s eyes which brought the colour rushing into her cheeks again, and made her feel as though the world were whirling madly round her. Behind her, the guard, having let up the steps, and shut the door, climbed, grumbling, on to the roof again. The coach began to move ponderously forward. Pen paid no heed to it, though the wheels almost brushed her coat. “Richard, you—you don’t want me! You can’t want me!” she said uncertainly.
“My darling!” he said. “Oh, my precious, foolish little love!”
The coach lumbered on down the road; as it reached the next bend, the roof-passengers, looking back curiously to see the last of a very odd couple, experienced a shock that made one of them nearly lose his balance. The golden-haired stripling was locked in the Corinthian’s arms, being ruthlessly kissed.