"Faith you're right, sweetheart. Then let us waste no time. My coach is
yonder."

He slid her arm within his and drew her forward. He was not unconscious
of a certain reluctance in her movements and a shyness in her manner,
but he put both down to maiden modesty. Her restraint made her all the
more enchanting and he quickened his pace. She was compelled to
accommodate her steps to his, but she did so unwillingly. A sudden
distrust whether of him or of herself she could not quite determine--had
seized her. She was repenting her rashness. She would have run from him
back to the school but that he held her too tightly. Within another
minute they had reached the heavy lumbering coach.

The coachman had seen them coming and descended from his box to open the
door. He was a big fellow who held himself erect like a soldier. His
swarthy complexion had a patch of purplish bloom spreading itself over
the cheek bones which told of constant tavern lounging. A pair of hawk's
eyes gleamed from under bushy beetling brows; wide loose lips and a
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.