“Oh, yes. We’ll have to go carefully down this hill, though. There are such a confounded lot of loose stones about.” He climbed into the dog-cart and very soon they had reached the village, where the chestnut, tired and subdued, was turned over to the blacksmith’s ministrations while Burke and Jean made their way to the inn. Tea was brought to them upstairs in a quaint, old-fashioned parlour fragrant of bygone times. Oaken beams, black with age, supported the ceiling, and on the high chimneypiece pewter dishes gleamed like silver, while at either end an amazingly hideous spotted dog, in genuine old Staffordshire, surveyed the scene with a satisfied smirk. Through the leaded diamond panes of the window was visible a glimpse of the Moor. “What an enchanting place!” commented Jean, as, tea over, she made a tour of inspection, pausing at last in front of the window. Burke had been watching her as she wandered about the room, his expression moody and dissatisfied. “It’s a famous resort for honeymooners,” he answered. “Do you think”--enquiringly--“it would be a good place in which to spend a honeymoon?” “That depends,” replied Jean cautiously. “If the people were fond of the country, and the Moor, and so on--yes. But they might prefer something less remote from the world.” “Would you?” “I?”--with detachment. “I’m not contemplating a honeymoon.” Suddenly Burke crossed the room to her side. “We might as well settle that point now,” he said quietly. “Jean, when will you marry me?” She looked at him indignantly. “I’ve answered that question before. It isn’t fair of you to reopen the matter here--and now.” “No,” he agreed. “It isn’t fair. In fact, I’m not sure that it isn’t rather a caddish thing for me to do, seeing that you can’t get away from me just now. But all’s fair in love and war. And it’s both love and war between us two”--grimly. “The two things don’t sound very compatible,” fenced Jean. “It’s only war till you give in--till you promise to marry me. Then”--a smouldering light glowed in his eyes--“then I’ll show you what loves means.” She shook her head. “I’m afraid,” she said, attempting to speak coolly, “that it means war indefinitely then, Geoffrey. I can give you no different answer.” “You shall!” he exclaimed violently. “I tell you, Jean, it’s useless your refusing me. I won’t _take_ no. I want you for my wife--and, by God, I’m going to have you!” She drew away from him a little, backing into the embrasure of the window. The look in his eyes frightened her. “Whether I will or no?” she asked, still endeavouring to speak lightly. “_My_ feelings in the matter don’t appear to concern you at all.” “I’d rather you came willingly--but, if you won’t, I swear I’ll marry you, willing or unwilling!”