"Bless you, you're neither so young nor so old as all that!"
Suddenly he grasped both her arms and looked her in the face. "My dear
young lady," he said gently, "I'm not your only friend, but I'm a stout
friend--so stout that there isn't a mount can carry us both together.
When you ride, I walk; when I ride, you walk--you understand? We don't
walk or ride together. I'm taking care of you. Your life is too good to
be ruined by rashness. You're in a 'state,' as my old housekeeper would
say, but you'll be all right presently. As soon as I've made a salad, and
had a marrowbone, you and I and Patsy Kernaghan are going to Nolan
Doyle's ranch. . . . My dear, you must do what I say, and if you do,
you'll be happy yet. I don't see how, quite, but it is so; and meanwhile,
you mustn't make any mistakes. You must play the game. And now come and
have some supper."
She waved her hand in protest. "I can't eat," she said. "Indeed, I
can't."
"Well, you can drink," he answered. "You shall not leave this house alive
unless you have a pint of milk with a little dash of what Patsy calls
'oh-be-joyful' in it."
He left the room for a moment, while she sat watching the door as a
prisoner might watch for the return of a friendly jailer. He had a
curious influence over her. It was wholly different from that of Orlando.
Presently he returned.
"It's all right," he said. "Patsy and you and I will be at Nolan Doyle's
ranch in another hour.
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