ict with him, will you? He will
only do things on the sly if you are."

Mordaunt frowned abruptly. "If I catch him doing anything underhand--"

She broke in sharply in evident distress. "But we all do, Trevor! I--I've
done it myself before now--often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with
Aunt Philippa. One has to, you know. At least--at least--" His grey eyes
suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had
begun.

There was a moment's silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away. "I
think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to."

She jumped up. "I'll come too."

He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand's. At once the
Frenchman spoke.

"But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses? It is growing late,
is it not? And you will be out this afternoon. Permit me to assist you
with them."

He picked up the basket as he spoke. Chris stopped irresolute. Her
husband was already moving away over the grass.

"Come!" said Bertrand persuasively.

Chris turned with a smile and took the basket. "All right, Bertie, let's
go. It is getting late, as you say, and I must get the vases filled."

They went away together to the rose-garden, and here, after brief
hesitation, Chris voiced her fears.

"I'm so afraid lest Trevor should ever get really angry with any of the
boys. They won't stand it, you know. And he--I sometimes think he is just
a little hard, don't you?"

Mordaunt's secretary pondered this proposition with drawn brows. "No," he
said finally, "he is not hard, but he is very honourable."

Chris laughed aloud. "That sounds just like a French exercise, Bertie. I
don't see what being honourable has to do with it, except that the people
who preen themselves on being honourable are just the ones who can't make
allowances for those who are not. You would think, wouldn't you, that
being good would make people extra kind and forgiving? But it doesn't,
you know. Look at Aunt Philippa!"

Bertrand's grimace was expressive. "And Aunt Philippa is good, yes?"

"Frightfully good," said Chris. "I don't suppose she ever told a story in
her life."

His quick eyes sought hers. "And that--that is to be good?"

Chris paused an instant, her attention caught by the question. "Why, I
suppose so," she said slowly. "Don't you call that goodness?"

He spread out his hands. "Me, I think it is the smallest kind of
goodness. One does not lie, one does not steal; but what of that