“M'mselle Chris, what is this?—to run about all night?” But Christian did not answer.
“M'mselle Chris, are you ill?” Then seeing her face, he slipped away again.
She finished her letter and went out to the carriage. Mr. Treffry was seated under the hood.
“Shan't want you,” he called out to the groom, “Get up, Dominique.”
Christian thrust her letter into his hand. “Give him that,” she said, clinging to his arm with sudden terror. “Oh! Uncle! do take care!”
“Chris, if I do this for you—” They looked wistfully at one another. Then, shaking his head, Mr. Treffry gathered up the reins.
“Don't fret, my dear, don't fret! Whoa, mare!”
The carriage with a jerk plunged forward into darkness, curved with a crunch of wheels, and vanished, swinging between the black tree-pillars at the entrance....
Christian stood, straining to catch the failing sound of the hoofs.
Down the passage came a flutter of white garments; soft limbs were twined about her, some ends of hair fell on her face.