truculent, pugnacious lower jaw completed the picture of a ruffian.

Lavinia glanced at him and that glance was enough, it deepened her
distrust into repugnance. But she had no time to protest. She was
hurried into the coach, Dorrimore in fact lifting her inside bodily with
unnecessary violence for she was almost thrown into a corner of the back
seat. Dorrimore followed, turned, shut the door and almost immediately
the carriage moved. The coachman must have sprung to his box with the
quickness of a harlequin. The whip cracked and the horses broke into a
gallop.

CHAPTER IV

"IF WE'RE NOT TO BE MARRIED TELL ME"

The rattle of the wheels over the loose, roughly laid cobble stones, and
the swaying carriage hung on leathers, forbade talking. Lavinia heard
her companion's voice but she did not know what he was saying. Not that
it mattered for she was in too much of a flutter to heed anything but
her own emotions, and these were so confused that they told her little.

Then Dorrimore's arm stole round her waist. Well, this was not
unnatural. Would they not be soon man and wife? The puzzle was that she
had no feeling of response. She would rather that he did not embrace
her. She did not want to be noticed. Yet she could not find it in her
heart to be unkind, so she allowed him to draw her nearer, to let her
head droop on his shoulder. She tried to think it was pleasant to be so
loved and she lowered her eyelashes when he kissed her again and again.

Two or three minutes of oblivion. The coach had raced down Red Lion
Street. It was in Holborn going eastwards and here the din and clatter
were heightened by the shouts of drunken roisterers. The overhanging
houses cast deep shadows and the coach was travelling in the gloom. It
was past midnight and the lamps hung at every tenth house were
extinguished. This was the rule.

Then Lavinia became conscious that the carriage was going down hill. It
had passed Fetter Lane into which it should have turned and was
proceeding towards Holborn Bridge. Why was this? Fetter Lane led into
Fleet Street and so to the Fleet. Had the coachman misunderstood his
instructions? She wrenched herself free and looked out of the window.
She recognised St. Andrew's Church in Holborn Valley. She turned
swiftly and faced Dorrimore. The coach had crossed the bridge and had
commenced the steep ascent of Holborn Hill on the other side. The horses
had slackened their pace. The noise was less loud.