"Well"—sulkily—"it was your own fault. You roused the wild beast in me." Then, with a queer, half-shamed laugh, he added: "There's Spanish blood in the Trenbys, you know—as there is in many of the Cornish folk."
Nan supposed this avowal was intended as an apology, or at least as an explanation of sorts. It was rather appealing in its boyish clumsiness, but she felt too numb, too utterly weary, to respond to it.
"You're tired," he said abruptly. "You'd better go to bed." He put a hand beneath her arm, but she shrank away from him with a fresh spasm of terror.
"Don't be afraid. I'm not going to kiss you again." He spoke reassuringly. "Come, let me help you. You can hardly stand."
Once more he took her arm, and, too stunned to offer any resistance, she allowed him to lead her from the room.
"Will you be all right, now?" he asked anxiously, as they paused at the foot of the staircase.
She gripped the banister.
"Yes," she answered mechanically. "I shall be all right."
He remained at the bottom of the stairs, watching until her slight figure had disappeared round the bend of the stairway.