“Oh, Blair!” She cried the driver’s name in a burst of relief.
“That you, Blanche?” He had jumped out of the cart and was running toward her. He saw the drenched figure on the sand.
“My Lord! Mrs. Gueste!”
Blanche’s clutch on his arm hurt him. “Oh, is she dead?” she entreated him.
“Not by a good deal.” He gave his flask to Blanche, and rolled his carriage robe around Lillian. Then he stripped off his mackintosh. “Here, girl,” he said, and Blanche thrust her arms into the sleeves.
“Saw you down there,” he said, lifting the unconscious woman’s dead weight into the cart. His voice was matter-of-course, but his look said she was magnificent.
“Hurry, hurry!” Blanche implored. “Take her over to the Crosbys’, Blair! Oh, quick!”
“Well, come on, then. I’ll whirl you over in a jiffy.”
“Oh, I’m going home—I’ll ride. I’m all right,” she said, through chattering teeth. “But she might—and Mr. Carter——”
“But, girl——”