“You don’t seem to have understood me,” she said forcing herself to speak composedly. “If I loved you, you’d have no need to ‘carry me off’ to your cave. I’d come--gladly. But I don’t love you, Geoffrey. And I shall never marry a man I don’t love.” “You’ll marry me,” he returned stubbornly. “Do you think I’m going to give you up so easily? If you do, you mistaken. I love you, and I’ll teach you to love me--when you’re my wife.” The two pairs of eyes met, a challenging defiance flashing between them. Jean shrugged her shoulders. “I think you must be mad,” she said contemptuously, and turned to leave him. In the same instant his hands gripped her shoulders and he swung her round facing him again. “Mad!” he exclaimed hoarsely. “Yes, I am mad--mad for you. You little cold thing! Do you know what love is--man’s love?” She felt his arms close round her like a vice of steel, lifting her off her feet, so that she hung helpless in his embrace. For a moment his eyes burned down into hers--the hot flame of desire that blazed in them seeming almost to scorch her--the next, he had hidden his face against the warm white curve of her throat, where a little affrighted pulse throbbed tempestuously. Then, as though the touch of her snapped the last link of his self-control, his mouth sought hers, and he was kissing her savagely, crushing her soft, wincing lips beneath his own. Her slender body swayed helpless as a reed in his strong grip, while the tide of his passion, like some fierce, untamable flood, swept over her resistlessly. When at last he released her, she stood back from him, staggering a little. Instinctively he stretched out his hand to steady her. “Don’t... touch me!” she panted. The words came driven between clenched teeth, chokingly. Her face was milk-white and her eyes blazed at him out of its pallor. She felt as if her heart were beating in her throat, stifling her, and for a little space sheer physical stress held her silent But she fought it back, asserting her will against her weakness. “How dare you?” There was bitter anger in her still tones. “How dare you touch me--like that?” With a swift movement she passed her handkerchief across her lips and then let it fall on the ground as though it were something unclean. He winced at the gesture; for a moment the passion died out of his face and a rueful look, almost of schoolboy shame, took its place. “Do you--feel like that about it?” he said, nodding towards the handkerchief. “Just like that,” she returned. “Do you think--if I had known--I would ever have risked being alone with you? But I thought we were friends--I never dreamed I couldn’t trust you.” “Well, you can’t,” he said unsteadily. The sight of her slender, defiant figure and lovely, tilted face, with the scornful lips he had just kissed showing like a scarlet stain against its whiteness, sent the blood rioting through his veins once more. “You’ll... you’ll never be able to trust any man who loves you, Jean.”