Gaunt lit a cigarette, and smoked for a few minutes without attempting conversation. Then he rose, laying the stump carefully in his plate, and came to the hearth-rug, half-way between his place and hers.
"You would like to go up to your room and rest before getting ready for your drive?" he asked.
"Presently, thank you—when Hemming comes back."
"I can carry you quite easily. I should like to."
"I would rather not. Please let me wait."
He came a step nearer. "Is it that you don't want to give me trouble, or that you won't let me touch you?" he asked with a sort of breathlessness.
"Oh, of course, because you must not take the trouble," she faltered hastily, not daring to say that his other surmise was the truth. The sequel to this hollow politeness was what she might have imagined. "Then I shall take you."
He came close up, and she gave a little cry, rather like a small furry thing in a trap. The sound caused him to lose his head, and determine to do as he liked. Stooping, he placed his arms under her securely.
"Put your arms round my neck," he bade her curtly. She obeyed, as she had schooled herself to obey every direct order given by him.
He stood upright, raising her in his arms, and strode from the room with her. He could actually hear the pulsings of her heart against his ear, and the hurry of her panting, sobbing breath.