d at Valpre. The little one was lonely. We made games
in the sand. We chased the crabs; we explored the caves; we played
together--as children." He stifled a sudden sigh, and rose. "_Eh bien_,"
he said, "we cannot be children for ever. We grow up--some quick--some
slow--but all grow up at last."

He broke off, and took up the evening paper to cut the leaves.

Mordaunt watched him in silence--a silence through which in some fashion
he conveyed his sympathy; for after a moment Bertrand spoke again, still
dexterously occupied with his task.

"Ah! you understand," he said. "I have no need to explain to you that
this meeting with my little friend who belonged to the happy days that
are past has given me almost as much of pain as of pleasure. I do not try
to explain--because you understand."

"You will get over it, my dear fellow," Mordaunt said, with quiet
conviction.

"You think it?" Bertrand glanced up momentarily.

"I do," Mordaunt answered, with a very kindly smile. "In fact, I think,
with all due respect to you, that you are younger than you feel."

"Ah!" There was not much conviction in Bertrand's response. He
stood up and handed the paper to Mordaunt with a quick bow. "But--all
the same--you understand?" he questioned, with a touch of anxiety.

"Of course I understand," Mordaunt answered gently.

CHAPTER XII

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

"At last!" said Chris.

It was her birthday party, and she stood at the head of the stairs by her
aunt's side, receiving her guests.

Very young she looked, a child still, despite her twenty-one years, and
supremely happy. Her aunt, one of those ladies whose very smile is in
itself an act of condescension, was treating her with unusual
graciousness that night, and there was not a star awry in Chris's
firmament.

She had just caught a glimpse of her _fiance_ in the crowd below her, and
a hasty second glance had shown her that he was not unaccompanied. A
slight man, olive-skinned, with a very small, black moustache and quick
eyes that searched upwards restlessly, was ascending the stairs with him.
In the instant that she looked those eyes found her, and flashed their
quick recognition.

Chris waved her fan in eager greeting. "Ah, there he is!" she cried
aloud.

"My dear child!" said Aunt Philippa.

Impetuously Chris turned to her. "He is a friend of mine, and Trevor's
secretary. I told Trevor to bring him. He is French, and his name is
Bertrand."

Her cheeks were