“Quite,” she answered, “and my boots are thick, and it has not been raining long.”
Mr Cheviott turned to the carriage, from which he extracted a large, soft, woolly rug.
“Loosen your cloak for a moment,” he said, “and put this thing on under it, then your cloak again. Now can you climb up to the front beside me? I am driving.” Mary managed it, almost without assistance, and Mr Cheviott followed her. But, just as the groom was about to leave the horse’s head, a sudden giddiness came over her, and she swayed forward for a second. Mr Cheviott caught her with his left arm, and called to the man to stay where he was for a moment.
“Miss Western,” he said, in a low voice, “you are perfectly exhausted. It is not right of me to let you go farther.”
She placed both hands on his arm.
“Oh, yes, yes,” she pleaded. “Anything rather than losing more time by taking me home first. It was only for a moment—I am better now.”
“Andrew,” called out Mr Cheviott, “where is my flask?”
“In the left-hand inside pocket, sir,” was the reply, “the pocket of your light top-coat, sir—not of the ulster.” In a moment the flask was forthcoming, a small quantity poured into the silver cup and held to Mary’s lips.
“No, thank you,” she said, calmly. “I never take wine.”
Mr Cheviott felt almost inclined to laugh.