The faintest smile twitched the comers of her lips. Burke was not the type of man to regret an unlawful kiss or two! She was conscious that--as usual, where he was concerned--her virtuous indignation was oozing away in the most discreditable and hopeless fashion. There was an audacious charm about the man, an attractiveness that would not be denied in the hot-headed way he went, all out, for what he wanted. Other women, besides Jean had found it equally difficult to resist. His sheer virility, with its splendid disregard for other people’s claims and its conscienceless belief that the battle should assuredly be to the strong, earned him forgiveness where, for misdeeds not half so flagrant, a less imperious sinner would have been promptly shown the door. But no woman--not even the women to whom he had made love without the excuse of loving--had ever shown Burke the door or given him the kind of treatment which he had thoroughly well merited twenty times over. And Jean was no exception to the rule. At least he had some genuine claim on her forgiveness--the claim of a love which had swept through his very bung like a flame, the fierce passion of a man to whom love means adoration, worship--above all, possession. And what woman can ever long remain righteously angry with a man who loves her--and whose very offence is the outcome of the overmastering quality of that love? Very few, and certainly none who was so very much a woman, so essentially feminine as Jean. It was in a very small voice, which she endeavoured to make airily detached, that she at last broke the silence which had reigned for the last six miles or so. “I suppose I shall have to forgive you--more or less. One can’t exactly quarrel with one’s next door neighbour.” Burke smiled grimly. “Can’t one?” “Well, there’s Judith to be considered.” “A rather curious expression came into her eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “There’s Judith to be considered.” There was a hint of irony in the dry tones. “It would complicate matters if I were not on speaking terms with her brother,” pursued Jean. She waited for his answer, but none came. The threatened possibility contained in her speech appeared to have fallen on deaf ears, and the silence seemed likely to continue indefinitely. Jean prompted him gently. “You might, at least, say you are sorry for--for----” “For kissing you?”--swiftly. “Yes”--flushing a little. “But I’m not. Kissing you”--with deliberation--“is One of the things I shall never regret. When I come to make my peace with Heaven and repent in sackcloth and ashes for my sins of omission and commission, I shan’t include this afternoon in the list, I assure you. It was worth it--if I pay for it afterwards in hell.” He was silent for a moment. Then: “But I’ll promise you one thing. I’ll never kiss you again till you give me your lips yourself.” Jean smiled at the characteristic speech. She supposed this was as near an apology as Burke would ever get.