rest of the company, with the exception of
Mordaunt, who was at work in his own room, were in the billiard-room just
beyond, and Chris and Rupert repaired thither, relieved to make their
escape so easily.

They found Bertrand, who was an expert player, making a long break. He
was playing against Max, whose opinion of him was obviously rising with
this display of skill.

He was engaged upon a most difficult stroke when Chris entered, and she
stopped behind him lest she should disturb his aim. But he turned round
at once to her, leaving the balls untouched.

"_Mais non_!" he declared lightly. "I cannot play with my back to my
hostess. It is an affair _tres difficile_, and I must have everything in
my favour."

"Oh, don't let me spoil your luck!" she said.

She came and stood at the end of the table to watch him.

"That would not be possible," he protested, as he applied himself again
to the ball.

He achieved the stroke with that finish and dexterity that marked all he
did.

"Oh, I say!" said Noel disgustedly. "You haven't a look-in, Max. He plays
like a machine."

"You like not to be beaten by a Frenchman, no?" laughed Bertrand. "_Il
faut que les anglais soient toujours, toujours les premiers, hein_?" He
stopped suddenly, for Chris had made the faintest movement, as if his
words had touched some chord of memory. He flashed her a swift look, and
the smile died out of his face. He moved round the table, and again
stooped to his stroke. "But what is success after all," he said, "and
what is failure?"

"You ought to know," Max observed dryly, as again he made his point.

The Frenchman straightened himself. There was something of kinship
between these two, a tacit sympathy that had taken root on the night of
Chris's birthday, an understanding that called for no explanation.

"Yes," he said, with a quick nod, "I know them both. They are worth
just--that." He snapped his fingers in the air. "They pass like"--he
hesitated a moment, then ended with deliberation--"like pictures in the
sand."

"The same remark applies to most things," said Rupert.

Bertrand glanced at him. "To all but one, monsieur," he said, in a queer
tone that was almost tinged with irony.

Again he bent himself to a stroke with a quick, light grace, as though he
regarded success as a foregone conclusion.

"Look at that!" said Noel in dejection, as the ball cannoned triumphantly
down the table. "The gods are all on his side."

The stroke