“Quite. He’ll come round presently. You said he had ridden far?”

“He must have, sir⁠—I wish he were not so pale⁠—he was staying with the O’Haras at Maltby.”

“What? The O’Haras?”

“Yes⁠—and he must have ridden from there⁠—and his wound still so tender!” Again she kissed the limp hand.

Over by the window his Grace, his breath recovered, was eyeing Andrew through his quizzing-glass.

“May I inquire what brings you here?” he asked sweetly. “And why you saw fit to bring the saintly Richard?”

“I came because it suited me to do so. I never dreamed you were here⁠—’Pon my soul, I did not!”

“Where then did you think I was?”

“Never thought about you at all, my dear fellow. I’m not your squire.”