If John Carrington’s heartstrings pulled tenaciously toward home, it was not visible in the cordial insistence with which he drove Hastings and Mr. Wade to their car.
“I count on you both for lunch tomorrow,” he called, as he left them at that haven of refuge.
Then he gripped Kipley’s arm.
“Drive like the devil!” he whispered, hoarsely.
* * * * *
The ride had shaken the chill from young Carrington’s blood, but Trevanion refused to leave him until he saw him safely in the house.
At the door young Carrington turned and laid his hand lightly and firmly on Trevanion’s arm.
“You’re splendid, Trevanion,” he said, gently; “I shan’t forget.”
And Trevanion, turning away, would have given his heart’s blood for just that.