“What’s the matter?” said Burke.

“Nothing,” she returned, trying to remove her work from his grasp.

“Nothing!” he echoed.  “Then why am I told not to be silly, not to hinder you, and to go and shoot something?”

Sylvia sat up in her chair, and faced him.  “If you must have it—­I think you’ve been—­rather brutal,” she said, lifting her clear eyes to his.  “No doubt you had plenty of excuse, but that doesn’t really justify you.  At least—­I don’t think so.”

He met her look in his usual direct fashion.  Those eagle eyes of his sent a little tremor through her.  There was a caged fierceness about them that strangely stirred her.

He spoke after the briefest pause with absolute gentleness.  “All right, little pal!  It’s decent of you to put it like that.  You’re quite wrong, but that’s a detail.  You’ll change your views when you’ve been in the country a little longer.  Now forget it, and come for a ride!”

It was disarmingly kind, and Sylvia softened in spite of herself.  She put her hand on his arm.  “Burke, you won’t do it again?” she said.

He smiled a little.  “It won’t be necessary for some time to come.  If you did the same to Fair Rosamond now and then you would marvellously improve her.  Idle little cuss!”

“I never shall,” said Sylvia with emphasis.

He heaved a sigh.  “Then I shall have to kick her out I suppose.  I can see she is wearing your temper to a fine edge.”

She bit her lip for a second, and then laughed.  “Oh, go away, do?  You’re very horrid.  Rose may be trying sometimes, but I can put up with her.”

“You can’t manage her,” said Burke.

“Anyway, you are not to interfere,” she returned with spirit.  “That’s my department.”

He abandoned the discussion.  “Well, I leave it to you, partner.  You’re not to sit here mending shirts anyhow.  I draw the line at that.”

Sylvia’s delicate chin became suddenly firm.  “I never leave a thing unfinished,” she said.  “You will have to ride alone this evening.”

“I refuse,” said Burke.

She opened her eyes wide.  “Really”—­she began.

“Yes, really,” he said.  “Put the thing away!  It’s a sheer fad to mend it at all.  I don’t care what I wear, and I’m sure you don’t.”

“But I do,” she protested.  “You must be respectable.”

“But I am respectable—­whatever I wear,” argued Burke.  “It’s my main characteristic.”

His brown hand began to draw the garment in dispute away from her, but Sylvia held it tight.

Burke, don’t—­please—­be tiresome!  Every woman mends her husband’s clothes if there is no one else to do it.  I want to do it.  There!”

“You don’t like doing it!” he challenged.

“It’s my duty,” she maintained.

He gave her an odd look.  “And do you always do—­your duty?”

“I try to,” she said.