“We might as well settle that point now,” he said quietly. “Jean, when will you marry me?”
She looked at him indignantly.
“I’ve answered that question before. It isn’t fair of you to reopen the matter here—and now.”
“No,” he agreed. “It isn’t fair. In fact, I’m not sure that it isn’t rather a caddish thing for me to do, seeing that you can’t get away from me just now. But all’s fair in love and war. And it’s both love and war between us two”—grimly.
“The two things don’t sound very compatible,” fenced Jean.
“It’s only war till you give in—till you promise to marry me. Then”—a smouldering light glowed in his eyes—“then I’ll show you what loves means.”
She shook her head.
“I’m afraid,” she said, attempting to speak coolly, “that it means war indefinitely then, Geoffrey. I can give you no different answer.”
“You shall!” he exclaimed violently. “I tell you, Jean, it’s useless your refusing me. I won’t take no. I want you for my wife—and, by God, I’m going to have you!”
She drew away from him a little, backing into the embrasure of the window. The look in his eyes frightened her.