“No, madam.” Carstares was as white as she was red, but he was holding himself well in hand.

“Then⁠—” the husky voice was very low, “then⁠—why don’t you?”

The slim hand against the tree trunk was clenched tightly, she observed. In his pale face the blue eyes burnt dark.

“Because, madam, ’twere the action of a⁠—of a⁠—”

“Of a what, Mr. Carr?”

“A cur! A scoundrel! A blackguard!”

Another rose was sharing the fate of the first.

“I have heard it said that some women like⁠—curs, and-and⁠—and scoundrels; even blackguards,” remarked that provocative voice. Through her lashes its owner watched my lord’s knuckles gleam white against the tree-bark.