“It is not wine, as it happens,” he replied. “It is brandy and water. But, if it were wine, it wouldn’t matter. You promised to do as you were told.”
“Brandy,” repeated Mary, “I cannot take that. It will go to my head.”
“It will not,” said Mr Cheviott. “Now, Miss Western, don’t be silly. Drink it.”
She did so.
“Was there ever such a girl before?” said Mr Cheviott, speaking audibly enough though as if to himself. “Such a mixture of strength and childishness, common sense and uncommon fancifulness! Oh, Miss Western?” Mary, in turn, could hardly help laughing.
“Now,” he went on, “if you feel giddy you very likely will when we start—don’t say it’s the brandy. I cannot keep my arm round you,” Mary started up indignantly, she had forgotten that all this time, through the episode of the flask and all, the arm had been there,—“I cannot keep my arm round you,” he continued, coolly, though perfectly aware of the start, “because I am going to drive. I cannot trust my man to drive this mare, and I cannot let you sit behind with him. So promise me, if you feel giddy, to take hold of my arm for yourself. It will not interfere with my driving, and a very light hold will keep you firm.”
“Very well,” said Mary, meekly enough to outward hearing, though, in her heart, a vow was registered that, short of feeling herself falling bodily out of the carriage, nothing should induce her to resort to such assistance.
“I shall drive slowly, at first,” said Mr Cheviott, “as the mare is already a little excited. But it will not really lose any time to speak of. I was driving foolishly fast when I met you, but then I had only my own neck to think of.”
“And Andrew’s,” suggested Mary.
“And Andrew’s,” he repeated. “But Andrew is experienced in the art of taking care of his neck. I never saw any one with a greater knack of keeping out of damage than he has.”