In a brief space, stung to swift decision by that tense moment when Burke’s self-mastery had given way, she had made up her mind to risk the open moor. But, for that she must somehow contrive to be left alone. She must gain time--time to allay Burke’s suspicions by pretending to make the best of the matter, and then, on some pretext or other, get him out of the room. It was the sole way of escape she could devise. “Well, which is it to be?” Burke’s voice broke in harshly upon the wild turmoil of her thoughts. “Your promise--and Staple within an hour and a half? Or--the other alternative?” “I don’t think it can be either--yet,” she said quietly. “What you’re asking--it’s too big a question for a woman to decide all in a minute. Don’t you see”--with a rather shaky little laugh--“it means my whole life? I--I must have time, Geoffrey. I can’t decide now. What time is it?” He struck a match, holding the flame close to the dial of his watch. “Seven o’clock.” “Only that?” The words escaped her involuntarily. It seemed hours, an eternity, since she had read those few brief words contained in Judith’s telegram. And it was barely an hour ago! “Then--then I can have a little time to think it over,” she said after a moment. “We could get back to Staple by ten if we left here at eight-thirty?” “There or thereabouts. We should have to go slow through this infernal mist Jean”--his voice took on a note of passionate entreaty--“sweetest, won’t you give me your promise and let me take you home? You shall never regret it. I----” “Oh, hush!” she checked him quickly. “I can’t answer you now, Geoffrey. I must have time--time. Don’t press me now.” “Very well.” There was an unaccustomed gentleness in his manner. Perhaps something in the intense weariness of her tones appealed to him. “Are you very tired, Jean?” “Do you know”--she spoke with some surprise, as though the idea had only just presented itself to her--“do you know, I believe I’m rather hungry! It sounds very material of me”--laughing a little. “A woman in my predicament ought to be quite above--or beyond--mere pangs of hunger.” “Hungry! By Jove, and well you might be by this hour of the day!” he exclaimed remorsefully. “Look here, we’ll have supper. There are some chops in the larder. We’ll cook them together--and then you’ll see what a really domesticated husband I shall make.” He spoke with a new gaiety, as though he felt very sure of her ultimate decision and glad that the strain of the struggle of opposing wills was past. “Chops! How heavenly! I’m afraid”--apologetically--“it’s very unromantic of me, Geoffrey!” He laughed and, striking a match, lit the lamp. “Disgustingly so! But there are moments for romance and moments for chops. And this is distinctly the moment for chops. Come along and help me cook ’em.”