“But, Larry⁠—darlin’!”⁠—Lakla’s tones were⁠—well, maternally surprised⁠—“you’re stiff and sore, and Kra can carry you quite easily.”

“I won’t be carried!” sputtered the O’Keefe. “Damn it, Goodwin, there are such things as the unities even here, an’ for a lieutenant of the Royal Air Force to be picked up an’ carted around like a⁠—like a bundle of rags⁠—it’s not discipline! Put me down, ye omadhaun , or I’ll poke ye in the snout!” he shouted to his bearer⁠—who only boomed gently, and stared at the handmaiden, plainly for further instructions.

“But, Larry⁠—dear!”⁠—Lakla was plainly distressed⁠—“it will hurt you to walk; and I don’t want you to hurt, Larry⁠—darlin’!”