“Perhaps that was just it. I’ve rather grown to look upon it as my own particular prerogative to help you out of difficulties.”
“Well, naturally I’d rather it had been you,” she allowed, twinkling.
“Do you mean that?”—swiftly.
“Of course I do”—lightly. She had failed to notice the eagerness of demand in his quick question. “I’m more used to it! Besides, I believe Mr. Burke rather frightens me. He’s a trifle—overwhelming. Still”—shaking her head reprovingly—“I don’t think that excuses you. You must have a shocking temper.”
He laughed shortly.
“Most of the Tormarins have ruined their lives by their temper. I’m no exception to the rule.”
Jean’s thought flew back to the description she had overheard when in London: “A Tormarin in a temper is like a devil with the bit between his teeth.”
“Then it’s true, escaped her lips.
“What’s true?”—with some surprise. “That the Tormarins are a vile-tempered lot? Quite. If you want to know more about it, ask my mother. She’ll tell you how I came by this white lock of hair—the mark of the beast.”
Jean was trying to make the comments of the woman at the hotel and Blaise’s own confession tally with her recollection of the latter’s complete self-control on several occasions when he, or any other man, might have been pardoned for yielding to momentary anger.