llest doubt that her young cousin invested him with
all the glamour of a vivid imagination. He was fashioned of the substance
of dreams, and she fancied that Chris herself was more than half aware of
this.

But still her faint misgiving did not wholly die away. Though Trevor
Mordaunt had secured for himself the girl of his choice, she could not
suppress a grave doubt as to whether he had yet succeeded in winning her
heart. He would ultimately win it; she felt convinced of that. He was a
man who was bound sooner or later to rule supreme. And thus she strove to
reassure herself; but still, in spite of her, the doubt remained. Chris
was so young, so gay, so innocent. She could not bear to think of the
troubles and perplexities of womanhood descending upon her. She was so
essentially made for the joy of life.

She sat and watched her unperceived, the slim young figure in the shaded
lamplight, the shining hair, the slender neck--all vivid, instinct with
life; and she comprehended the witchery that had caught Mordaunt's heart.
Of the man himself she knew but little. He was not expansive, and
circumstances had not thrown them together. But what she knew of him she
liked. She was aware that her brother valued his friendship very
highly--a friendship begun on a South African battlefield; and though
they had met but seldom since, the intimacy between them had remained
unshaken.

Trevor Mordaunt was a man of many friends--friends in all ranks and of
many nationalities. No one knew quite how he made them; no one ever saw
his friendships in the making. But all over the world were men who hailed
his coming with pleasure and saw him go with regret.

She supposed him capable of a vast sympathy, a wide understanding. It
seemed the only explanation. But would he understand her little Chris?
she wondered. Would he make full allowance for her dear caprices, her
whimsical fancies, her butterfly temperament? Would he ever thread his
way through these fairy defences to that hidden shrine where throbbed her
woman's heart? And would he be the first to enter there? She hoped so;
she prayed so.

"Hilda"--imperiously the gay voice broke through her reverie--"if Percy
wants to know what sort of pendants to give the bridesmaids, be sure you
say turquoise and pearl. It's most important."

She was still strumming her waltz, and did not hear Mordaunt enter behind
her.

"I saw a most lovely thing to-day," she went on. "One of those
heart-shaped