“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.

“Don’t shrink like that!” he exclaimed savagely.  “By God!  Do you think I’ll stand being treated as though I were a leper?  You avoid me all you can—­detest the sight of me, I suppose!  But remember one thing—­you’re going to be my wife.  Nothing can alter that, and you belong—­to—­me”—­emphasising each word separately.  “You mayn’t give me your smiles—­but I’m damned if you shall give them to any other man.”

He thrust his face, distorted with anger, close to hers.

“Now do you understand?”

She struggled in his grasp like a frightened bird, her eyes dilating with terror.  She knew, only too well, what this big primitive-souled man could be like when the devil in him was roused, and his white, furious face and blazing eyes filled her with panic.

“Roger!  Let me go!” she cried, her voice quick with fear.  “Let me go!  You’re hurting me!”

“Hurting you?” With an effort he mastered himself, slackening his grasp a little, but still holding her.  “Hurting you?  I wonder if you realise what a woman like you can do to a man?  When I first met you I was just an ordinary decent man, and I loved and trusted you implicitly.  But now, sometimes, I almost feel that I could kill you—­to make sure of you!”

“But why should you distrust me?  It’s Isobel—­Isobel Carson who’s put these ideas into your head.”

“Perhaps she’s opened my eyes,” he said grimly.  “They’ve been shut too long.”

“You’ve no right to distrust me—­”

“Haven’t I, Nan, haven’t I?” He held her a little away from him and searched her face.  “Answer me!  Have I no right to doubt you?”