The book that she had been reading earlier in the evening lay open on her knee, and her thoughts were with Claire now. She pictured her sitting next to Nick at dinner, her flower-like face radiant with unclouded happiness, and Jean was thankful to the very bottom of her heart that she was able to feel glad--glad of that happiness. At least her own sorrow had not yet taught her the grudging envy which cannot endure another’s joy. With a quickly repressed sigh, she turned again to her book. Its pages fluttered faintly, as though stirred by some passing current of air, and Jean, coming suddenly out of her reverie, was conscious of a cool draught wafting towards her from the direction of the terrace door. Vaguely surprised, she glanced up, and a startled cry broke from her lips. The door was open, the folds of the curtain had been drawn aside, and in the aperture stood Blaise Tormarin. Jean sprang up from her chair and stood staring at him with dilated eyes, one hand gripping the edge of the chimney-piece. “Blaise!... You!” The words issued stammeringly from her lips. “Yes,” he returned shortly. “May I come in?” Without waiting for an answer he closed the door behind him, letting the curtain fall back into its place, and crossed the room to her side. Jean felt her heart contract as her eyes marked the changes wrought in him by the few weeks which had elapsed since she had seen him. His face was haggard as though from lack of sleep, and the lines on either side the mouth were scored deep into the flesh. The mouth itself closed in a tense line of savage misery and the stark bitterness of his eyes filled her with grief and pity, knowing how utterly powerless she was to help or comfort him. Distrusting her self-control, she snatched at the first conventional remark that suggested itself. “I thought--I thought you and Nesta were both dining at the Dower House,” she said confusedly. “Nesta is there. I made an excuse. I came here instead.” Something in the curt, clipped sentences sounded a note of warning in her ears. “But you ought not to have come here,” she replied quickly--defensively almost. “Why have you come, Blaise?” “I came,” he said slowly, “because I can’t bear my life without you a day longer. Because---- Oh, Jean! Jean!... _Beloved!_ Do you need to ask me why I came?” With a swift, irresistible movement he swept her up into his arms, holding her crushed against his breast, his mouth on hers, kissing her as a man kisses when love that has been long thwarted and denied at last bursts asunder the shackles which constrained it. And Jean, starved for four long months of the touch of the beloved arms, the pressure of the beloved lips upon her own, had yielded to him almost before she was aware of her surrender. Then the remembrance of the woman who stood between them rushed across her and she tore herself free from his embrace, white and trembling in every limb.