"Don't you remember what I said the first day I met you?"
"Yes."
"It stands, my dear; and more than that." He paused for a second and took her thin hand. "And don't you worry about that book. You get well and strong."
He kissed her hand and spoiled the gallantry by squeezing her shoulder—half her little body it seemed to be—and emerging from the compartment joined us on the platform. He put a great finger on the arm of the rubicund, thickset, black-moustached Jornicroft.
"I think I'll come with you as far as Paris," said he. "I'll get into a smoker somewhere or the other."
"But, my dear sir"—exclaimed Mr. Jornicroft in some amazement—"it's awfully kind, but why should you?"
"Mrs. Boldero has got to be carried. I didn't realise it. She can't put her feet to the ground. Some one has got to lift her at every stage of the journey. And I'm not going to let any damned clumsy fellow handle her. I'll see her into the Nice train to-morrow night—perhaps I'll go on to Nice with you and fix her up in the hotel. As a matter of fact, I will. I shan't worry you. You won't see me, except at the right time. Don't be afraid."
Mr. Jornicroft, most methodical of Britons, gasped. So, I must confess, did Barbara and I. When Jaffery met us at the station he had no more intention of escorting Doria to Nice than we had ourselves.
"I can't permit it—it's too kind—there's no necessity—we'll get on all right!" spluttered Mr. Jornicroft.
"You won't. She has got to be carried. You're not going to take any risks."