"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."