"Come and get into the carriage, then," he said. "You are ill. Your hands and face are burning. I'm afraid you have fever. You'd better get home as quickly as possible."
The driver of our carriage, who had followed, drew up beside us; but even as I turned to step into the carriage, suddenly I remembered what Miss Foster had said that first day:
"This carriage is owned by Mr. Burbank. He supplies all the carriages for the press."
"I can't ride in that!" I cried.
"You've got to," said Marchmont. "It's the last one left except Mr. Burbank's own."
"I'm going to walk home," I said.
I was slowly recovering a certain degree of self-possession. Nevertheless, my temples were throbbing; my head ached splittingly. I was not crying, but gasping sobs kept seizing me, such as attack children after a tempestuous storm of tears.
"You can't possibly walk home," declared Marchmont. "It is at least four and a half miles, if not more."
"I am going to walk just the same," I said. "I would rather die than ride in that carriage."