“I’ll come out and have a look at him,” he said quickly. “I’ll come with you,” added Lady Anne. She slipped her hand through his arm, and they hurried off to the stables, leaving Blaise and Jean alone together. For a moment neither spoke. Blaise, smoking a cigarette, remained staring sombrely into the fire. Apparently he did not regard it as incumbent on him to make conversation, and Jean felt miserably nervous about broaching the subject of her visit. At last, however, fear lest Lady Anne and Nick should return before she could do so drove her into speech. “Mr. Tormarin,” she said quietly--so quietly that none would have guessed the flurry of shyness which underlay her cool little voice--“I am very sorry my presence here is so unwelcome to you. I’m afraid you will have to put up with me for a week or two, but I promise you I will try to make other arrangements as soon as I can.” He turned towards her abruptly. “May I ask what you mean?” he demanded. It was evident from the haughty, almost arrogant tone of his voice that something had aroused his anger, though whether it was the irritation consequent upon her presence there, or because he chose to take her speech as censuring his attitude, Jean was unable to determine. His eyes were stormy and inwardly she quailed a little beneath their glance; outwardly, however, she retained her composure. “I think my meaning is perfectly clear,” she returned with spirit. “Even at the station you made it quite evident that my appearance came upon you in the light of an unpleasant surprise. And--from what you said just now to Mr. Brennan--it is obvious you hope my visit will not be a long one.” If she had anticipated spurring him into an impulsive disclaimer, she was disappointed. “I am sorry I have failed so lamentably in my duties as host,” he said coldly. The apology, uttered with such an entire lack of ardour, served to emphasise the offence for which it professed to ask pardon. Jean’s face whitened. She would hardly have felt more hurt and astonished if he had struck her. “I--I----” she began. Then stopped, finding her voice unsteady. But he had heard the break in the low, shaken tones, and in a moment his mood of intolerant anger vanished. “Forgive me,” he said remorsefully--and there was genuine contrition in his voice now. “I’m a cross-grained fellow, Miss Peterson; you’ll find that out before you’ve been here many days. But never think that you are unwelcome at Staple.” “Then why--I don’t understand you,” she stammered. She found his sudden changes of humour bewildering. He smiled down at her, that rare, strangely sweet smile of his which when it came always seemed to transform his face, obliterating the harsh sternness of its lines. “Perhaps I don’t quite understand, either,” he said gently. “Only I know it would have been better if you had never come to Staple.” “Then--you wish I hadn’t come?” “Yes,”--slowly. “I think I do wish that.” She looked at him a little wistfully.