The hazel eyes blazed with a curious light, like flame, and she shivered a little, fighting the man's personality--battling against that strange kinship of temperament by which he always drew her. "I can wait," he said, quietly releasing her. "You can't go on long as you're living now; the tension's too high. And when you're through with it--come to me, Nan! I'd at least make you happier than Trenby ever will." Without reply she moved towards the door and he stood aside, allowing her to pass out of the room in silence. In the hall she encountered Roger, who had ridden over, accompanied by a trio of dogs, and the sight of his big, tweed-clad figure, so solidly suggestive of normal, everyday things, filled her with an unexpected sense of relief. He might not be the man she loved, but he was, at any rate, a sheet-anchor in the midst of the emotional storms that were blowing up around her. To-day, however, his face wore a clouded, sullen expression when he greeted her. "What have you been doing with yourself?" he asked, his eyes fastening suspiciously on her flushed cheeks. She answered him with a poor attempt at her usual nonchalance. "Oh, Maryon came over this morning, so I've been sitting to him." "All day? I don't like it too well." The look of displeasure deepened on his face. "People will talk. You know what country folks are like." Nan's eyes flashed. "Let them talk! I'm not going to regulate my conduct according to the villagers' standard of propriety," she replied indignantly. "It isn't merely the villagers," pursued Roger. "Isobel said, only yesterday, she thought it was rather indiscreet." "Isobel!" interrupted Nan scornfully. "It would be better if she kept her thoughts for home consumption. The neighbourhood might conceivably comment on the number of times you and she go 'farming' together." Roger looked quickly at her, a half-smile on his lips. "Why, Nan!" he said, a note of surprise, almost of satisfaction, in his voice. "I believe you're growing jealous?" She laughed contemptuously. She was intensely angry that he should have quoted Isobel's opinion to her, and she struck back as hard as she could. "My dear Roger, surely by this time it must be clear to you that I'm not very likely to be afflicted by--jealousy!" The shaft went home, and in an instant the dawning smile on his face was replaced by an expression of bitter resentment. "No, I suppose not," he returned sullenly. He stared down at her, and something in the indifferent pose of her slim figure made him realise afresh for how little--how pitifully little--he counted in this woman's life. He gripped her shoulder in sudden anger. "But _I_ am jealous!"--vehemently. "Do you hear, Nan? Jealous of your reputation and your time--the time you give to Rooke." She shrank away from him, and the movement seemed to rouse him to a white heat of fury. Instead of releasing her, he pulled her closer to him.