I swore with some vigour. Then, picking her up tenderly, I carried her to the car and placed her in the back seat.
"We'll soon remedy that," I said. "I was an idiot not to have thought of it before."
I wrenched open my bag, and took out the sandwiches and whisky with which the ever-to-be-blessed Aunt Mary had so thoughtfully provided me. Mercia smiled gratefully; and the first sip of the spirit brought back a faint fleck of colour into her white face.
Billy was standing by, his brows drawn down in an angry frown.
"We let that cur off too easily," he growled. "Shall I go back and give him some more?"
"No, no," said Mercia. "I am much better. I am sure you have hurt him quite a lot. I heard him crying, and I was glad; but you mustn't hurt him any more. Take me away from this place—that's all I want."
"Just as you like," said Billy reluctantly. "I should love to have had a cut at him, though."
He took his seat at the wheel, while I climbed in beside Mercia and tucked her up comfortably with the rug. A minute later, we were spinning southwards through the cool night air along the road to Woodford—and London.
I shall never forget that drive. A strange, delightful sense of intimacy had sprung up between Mercia and myself, and I sat there holding her dear hand under the rug in a rich contentment that needed no words for its expression. Despite the dangers and perplexities that still surrounded us, there seemed no longer to be any cause for worry and doubt. The barriers were down—we knew that we loved each other, and in the light of that knowledge the world and its difficulties slipped temporarily into insignificance.
Indeed, it was only with a painful effort that I at last succeeded in wrenching myself back to the very necessary thought of our future proceedings.