"Janey—darling sister! There! it's all over now. The fire's out. Are you much hurt?"
"Quentin! Quentin!"
Leonard picked her up bodily, and carried her into the kitchen, sitting down by the fire with her on his knee. He began to examine her. Her skirt was nothing but charred rags, her face and hands were black with grime, and there was a horrible smell of singed hair, but she did not seem to be actually burnt. She was trembling from head to feet, her face hidden against his breast.
"I don't think you're really hurt, dear. What a lucky chance I happened to be there! If I'd done as I said and gone to Cherrygarden, you might have been burnt to death. How did you do it, Janey?"
"I was burning Quentin's letters.... Oh, Quentin! Quentin!"
The last dregs of Janey's self-control were gone. Anxiety, shock, grief, humiliation, love, despair and sickening, physical fright, all crowded into a few short hours, had almost deprived her of her reason.
"Quentin! Quentin!" she cried, clinging to Leonard.
She was so tall that he had difficulty in holding her on his knee while she struggled.
"Janey, I can't understand, dearest. Who's Quentin?—not Quentin Lowe?"