Burke’s calm tones fell rebukingly on the quivering, sensitive ears, and down came two shining hoofs in response, as the mare condescended to resume a more normal pose. The next moment she was off at a swinging trot, breaking every now and again, out of pure exuberance of spirits, into a canter, sternly repressed by those dominating hands whose quiet mastery seemed conveyed along the reins as an electric current is carried by a wire. “You needn’t be afraid,” remarked Burke. “She’ll settle down in a few minutes. It’s only a ‘stable ahead’ feeling she’s suffering from. There’s not an ounce of vice in her composition.” “I’m not afraid,” replied Jean composedly. She did not tell him why. But within herself she knew that no woman would ever be afraid with Geoffrey Burke. Afraid of him, possibly, but never afraid that he would not be entire master of any situation wherein physical strength and courage were the paramount necessities. She reflected a little grimly to herself that it was this very forcefulness which gave the man his unquestionable power of attraction. There is always a certain fascination in sheer, ruthless strength--a savour of magnificence about it, something tentatively heroic, which appeals irresistibly to that primitive instinct somewhere hidden in the temperamental make-up of even the most ultra-twentieth-century feminine product. And Jean was quite aware that she herself was not altogether proof against the attraction of Burke’s dynamic virility. There was another kind of strength which appealed to her far more. She knew this, too. The still, quiet force that was Tormarin’s--deep, and unfathomable, and silent, of the spirit as well as of the body. Contrasted with the savage power she recognised in Burke, it was like the fine, tempered steel of a rapier compared with a heavy bludgeon. “A penny for your thoughts!” Jean came out of her reverie with a start. She smiled. “Don’t get conceited. I was thinking about you.” “Nice thoughts, I hope, then?” suggested Burke. “It’s better”--audaciously--“to think well of your future husband.” The old gipsy’s words flashed into Jean’s mind: “_You’m bound together so fast and firm as weddin-ring could bind ’ee,_” and her face flamed scarlet. It was true--at least as far as she was concerned--that no wedding-ring could bind her more firmly to Blaise than her own heart had already bound her. The instinct to flirt with Burke was in abeyance. It was an instinct only born of heartache and unhappiness, and now that Blaise’s mood was so much less cool and distant than, it had been, the temptation to play with unexploded bombs had correspondingly lost much of its charm. “Don’t be tiresome, Geoffrey,” she said vexedly. “If only you would make up your mind to be--just pals, I should think much better of you.” “Then I’m afraid you’ll have to think worse,” he retorted.