Because Alan might get hurt.

“But there was an advertisement in the Westchester Times only two weeks ago, and Messrs. Dalton, Smeed and Dalton informed me only this morning that the farm was open to offer,” Lodwin protested.

“We forgot to tell them we’d withdrawn it,” Gillian said, and then realised that she had a headache, and that she did not quite know what she was doing or saying. Another phrase was beginning to jostle with the one which had hit so hard. “. . . . the sum of ten thousand pounds” That was at least twice as much as she and Alan had hoped to get, and the significance of that was only now beginning to dawn on her. “How——” she began.

“You can’t possibly have a house for sale one moment and not for sale the next,” the man said sharply. “Will you kindly “

“Pardon me, sir,” interrupted the coppery-haired young man with a beaming smile : his accent sounded rather overdone. “Didn’t you hear what the young lady said? The farm is not for sale, not even for ten thousand pounds cash against the exchange of contracts.”

“I don’t believe it,” snapped the man in grey.

“. . . he might get hurt . . . the sum of ten thousand pounds . . . he might . . . ten thousand.” It was ludicrous, but Gillian’s head was swimming, and her knees felt weak. She knew that she was losing colour, and stretched out a hand for support which wasn’t there. The young man seized her wrist and then moved forward and put an arm round her waist.

“Say, what’s wrong with you?”

“I don’t know,” Gillian answered with unexpected clarity, and knew that she would probably have fallen but for his support. “I’ve a bad headache, I think.”

“You’ve certainly got a bad something,” he declared, and moved his other arm suddenly. Before she realised what was happening, he had lifted her clear off her feet and was carrying her into the front room, to the large couch which stood with its back to the window.