THE chalcedony of the spring skies had deepened into the glowing sapphire of early June—a deep, pulsating blue, tremulous with heat. On the sundial, the shadow’s finger pointed to twelve o’clock, and the sleepy hush of noontide hung over the rose garden where Jean was gathering roses for the house.

“Can’t I help?”

Burke’s voice broke across the drowsy quiet so unexpectedly that she jumped, almost letting fall the scissors with which she was scientifically snipping the stems of the roses. She bestowed a small frown upon the head and shoulders appearing above the wooden gate on which he leant.

“It’s not very helpful to begin by giving one an electric shock,” she complained. “How long have you been there?” His attitude had a repose about it which suggested that he might have been standing there some time watching her.

“I don’t know. But as I am here, may I come in?” Without waiting for her answer, he unlatched the gate and came striding across the velvet greenness of the lawn.

His visits to Staple had grown of late so much a matter of daily occurrence that they were no longer hedged about by any ceremony, and Jean had come to accept his appearance at any odd moment without surprise.

Since the day when she had lunched at Willow Eerry, and learned, as she believed, to understand and make allowances for the bitterness which had so warped Judith’s nature, her acquaintance with both brother and sister had ripened rapidly into a friendly intimacy. But the fact that Burke’s feeling towards her was something other, and much warmer than mere friendship, had failed to penetrate her consciousness.

It was patent enough to the lookers on, and probably Jean was the only one amongst the little coterie of intimate friends who had not realised what was impending.

It is not very often that a woman remains entirely oblivious of the small, unmistakable signs which go to indicate a man’s attitude towards her. In Jean’s case, however, her thoughts were so engrossed with the one man that, at the moment, all other men occupied but a very shadowy relationship towards the realities of life as far as she was concerned.

So that she scarcely troubled to look up as Burke halted beside her, but went on cutting her roses unconcernedly, merely observing:

“Idlers not allowed. You can make yourself useful by paring the thorns off the stems.” She gestured towards a basket which stood on the ground at her side, already overflowing with its scented burden of pink and white and crimson roses.

He glanced at the russet head bent studiously above a bush rose and there was a gleam, half angry, half amused, in his eyes. His fingers went uncertainly to his pocket, where reposed a serviceable knife, then suddenly he drew his hand sharply away, empty.

“No,” he said. “I didn’t come over to be useful this morning. I came over”—he spoke slowly, as though endeavouring to gain her attention—“on a quite different errand.” There was a vibration in his voice that might have warned her had she been less intent upon her task of wrestling with a refractory branch. As it was, she merely questioned absently:

“And what was the ‘quite different’ errand?”

The next moment she felt his hand close over both hers, gardening scissors and wash-leather gloves notwithstanding.

“Stop cutting those confounded flowers, and I’ll tell you,” he said roughly.

She looked up in astonishment, and, at last, a glimmering of what was coming dawned upon her. Even the blindest of women, the most preoccupied, must have read the expression of his eyes at that moment.

“Oh, no—no,” she began hastily. “I must finish cutting the roses—really, Geoffrey.”

She tried to release her hands, but he held them firmly.

“No,” he said coolly. “You won’t finish cutting your flowers—at least, not now. You’re going to listen to me.” He drew the scissors from her grasp, and they flashed like a fish in the sunshine as he tossed them down on to the rose-basket. Then, quite deliberately, he pulled off the loose gloves she was wearing and his big hands gripped themselves suddenly, closely, about her slight, bared ones.

“Geoffrey——”

Her voice wavered uncertainly. The realisation of his intent had come upon her so unexpectedly, rousing her from her placid unconsciousness, that she felt stunned—nervously unready to deal with the situation. She struggled a little, instinctively, but he only laughed down at her, a ring of masterful triumph in his voice, holding her effortlessly, with all the ease of his immense strength.

“It’s no good, Jean. You’ve got to hear me out. I’ve waited long enough.” He paused, then drew a deep breath. “I love you!” he said slowly. “My God, how I love you!” There was an element of wonder in his tones, and she felt the strong hands gripping hers tremble a little. Then their clasp tightened and he drew her towards him.

“Say you love me,” he demanded. “Say it!”

It was then Jean found her voice. The imperious demand, infringing on that secret, inner claim of which she alone knew, stung her into quick denial.

“But I don’t! I don’t love you!” Then, as she saw the blank look in his eyes, she went on hastily: “Oh, Geoffrey, I am so sorry. I never guessed—I never thought of your caring.”

“You never guessed! Good God!”—with a harsh laugh—“I should have thought I’d made it plain enough. Why, even that first day, on the river—I wanted you then. What do you suppose has brought me to Staple every day? Affection for Blaise Tormarin?”—cynically.

“I thought—I thought——” She cast about in her mind for an answer, then presented him with the simple truth. “I’m afraid I never thought about it at all. I just took your coming over for granted. I knew you and Judith were old friends and neighbours, so it seemed quite natural for you to be here often—just as Claire Latimer is.”

Burke searched her face for a moment. He was thinking of the other women he had known—women who would never have remained blind to his meaning, who had, indeed, shown their willingness to come half-way—more than half-way—to meet him.

“I really believe that’s true,” he said at last, grudgingly. “But if it is, you’re the most unselfconscious woman I’ve ever come across.”

“Of course it’s true,” she replied simply. “I’m—I’m so sorry, Geoffrey. I like you far too much to have wished to hurt you.”

“I don’t want liking. I want your love. And I mean to have it. You may not have understood before, Jean, but you do now.”

She drew herself away from him a little.

“That doesn’t make any difference, Geoffrey. I have no love to give you,” she said quietly.

He shook his head.

“I won’t take no,” he said doggedly. “You’re the woman I want. And I mean to have you.... Don’t you understand? It’s no use fighting against me. You may say no, now; you may say no fifty times. But one day you’ll say—yes.”

Jean’s slight frame tautened.

“You are mistaken,” she said, in a chill, clear voice calculated to set immeasurable spaces between them. “I’m not a cave woman to be forced into marriage. Oh!”—the ludicrous side of this imperious kind of wooing striking her suddenly—“don’t be so absurd, Geoffrey! You can’t seize me by the hair and carry me off to your own particular hole in the rocks, you know.” She began to laugh a little. “Let’s just go on being............