“Make me!” Her eyes flashed sudden fire upon him.  She was overwrought and weary, and he had taken her by surprise, or she would have dealt with the situation—­and with him—­far otherwise.  “Make me!” she repeated, and in second, almost before she knew it, she was up in arms, facing him with open rebellion.  “I’ll defy you to do that!” she said.

The moment she had said it, the word still scarcely uttered, she repented.  She had not meant to defy him.  The whole thing had come about so swiftly, so unexpectedly, hardly, she felt, of her own volition.  And now, more than half against her will, she stood committed to carry through an undertaking for which even at the outset, she had no heart.  For there was no turning back.  The challenge, once uttered, could not be withdrawn.  She was no coward.  The idea came to her that if she blenched then she would for all time forfeit his respect as well as her own.

So she stood her ground, slim and upright, braced to defiance, though at the back of all her bravery there lurked a sickening fear.

Burke did not speak at once.  His look scarcely altered, his hold upon her remained perfectly steady and temperate.  Yet in the pause the beating of her heart rose between them—­a hard, insistent throbbing like the fleeing feet of a hunted thing.

“You really mean that?” he asked at length.

“Yes.”  Straight and unhesitating came her answer.  It was now or never, she told herself.  But she was trembling, despite her utmost effort.

He bent a little, looking into her eyes.  “You really wish me to show you who is master?” he said.

She met his look, but her heart was beating wildly, spasmodically.  There was that about him, a ruthlessness, a deadly intention, that appalled her.  The ground seemed to be rocking under her feet, and a dreadful consciousness of sheer, physical weakness rushed upon her.  She went back against the table, seeking for support.

But through it all, desperately she made her gallant struggle for freedom.  “You will never master me against my will,” she said.  “I—­I—­I’ll die first!”

And then, as the last shred of her strength went from her she covered her face with her hands, shutting him out.

“Ah!” he said.  “But who goes into battle without first counting the cost?”

He spoke sombrely, without anger; yet in the very utterance of the words there was that which made her realize that she was beaten.  Whether he chose to avail himself of the advantage or not, the victory was his.

At the end of a long silence, she lifted her head.  “I give you best, partner,” she said, and held out her hand to him with a difficult smile.  “I’d no right—­to kick over the traces—­like that.  I’m going to be good now—­really.”

It was a frank acceptance of defeat; so frank as to be utterly disarming.  He took the proffered hand and held it closely, without speaking.