“All the same,” he added, as, a few minutes later, he helped Jean out on to the little wooden landing-place at Staple, “I think I’m rather grateful to the small boy--whoever he may be!” She laughed and retorted impertinently: “I’m sure I’m very grateful to the bigger boy who came to the rescue.” There was something quite unconsciously provocative about her as she stood there with one foot poised on the planking, her head thrown back a trifle to meet his glance, and a hint of gentle raillery tilting the corners of her mouth. The cave-man woke suddenly in him. He was conscious of an almost irresistible impulse to take her in his arms and kiss her. But the conventions of the centuries held, and all Jean knew of that swift flare-up of desire in the man beside her was that the grip of his hand on hers suddenly tightened so that the pain of it almost made her cry out. And because she was not given to regarding every unmarried man she met in the light of a potential lover--as some women are prone to do--and because, perhaps, her thoughts were subconsciously preoccupied by a lean, dark face, rather stern and weary-looking as though from some past discipline of pain, Jean never ascribed that fierce pressure of the hand to its rightful origin, but merely rubbed her bruised fingers surreptitously and wished ruefully that men were not quite so muscular. “I’ll go with you up to the house,” remarked Burke, without any elaboration of “by your leave.” She was privately of the opinion that her leave would have little or nothing to do with the matter. If this exceedingly autocratic and masculine individual had decided to accompany her through the park, accompany her he would, and she might as well make the best of it. He was extraordinarily unlike his sister, she thought. Where Judith Craig would probably seek to attain her ends in a somewhat stealthy, cat-like fashion, Burke would employ the methods of the club and battering-ram. Of the two, perhaps these last were preferable, since they at least left you knowing what you were up against. “Will you come in?” asked Jean, pausing as they reached the house. “Though I’m afraid everyone is out.” “So much the better,” he replied promptly. “I’d much rather have tea alone with you.” “That’s not very polite to the others”--smiling a little. “I thought the Staple people were old friends of yours?” “So they are. That’s exactly it. I feel the mood of the explorer on me this afternoon.” “You’re one of the people with a penchant for new acquaintances, then?” she said indifferently, leading the way into the hall, where, in place of the great log fire of chillier days, a hank of growing tulips made a glory of gold and orange and red in the wide hearth. “No, I’m not,” he returned bluntly. “But I’ve every intention of making your acquaintance right now.” Jean rang the bell and ordered tea.