me?" Mordaunt said at last.

He shrugged his shoulders. "If you desire it, I will tell you what I
think."

"Tell me, then."

A faint flush rose in Bertrand's face. He contemplated the end of his
cigarette as if he were studying something of interest. "I think,
monsieur," he said at last, "that if you asked more of her, you would
obtain more. She is afraid of you because she does not know you. You
regard her as a child. You are never on a level with her. You are not
enough her friend. Therefore you do not understand her. Therefore she
does not know you. Therefore she is--afraid."

His eyes darted up to Mordaunt's grave face for an instant, and returned
to the cigarette.

There followed a silence of some duration. At last very quietly Mordaunt
rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began
to search for matches.

Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own. They stood close together
while the flame kindled between them. After a moment their eyes met
through a cloud of smoke. Bertrand's held a tinge of anxiety.

"I have displeased you, no?" he asked abruptly.

Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "On the contrary, I am
grateful to you. I believe there is something in what you say. I never
gave you credit for so much perception."

Bertrand's face cleared. He began to smile--the smile of the rider who
has just cleared a difficult obstacle.

"You have a proverb in England," he said, "concerning those who watch the
game, that they see more than those who play. Shall we say that it is
thus with me? You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you
both better than you know each other."

"I believe you do," Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself. "Well, I
suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake. I wonder
if he has gone to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's time you went,
anyhow. You are looking fagged to death. Go and sleep as long as you
can."

He gripped the Frenchman's hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny
which Bertrand refused to meet. He never encouraged any reference to his
health.

"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip
with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He
was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.

Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work
which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It
wa