ly gone.

It was not until after dinner that Noel emerged from his lair in the
gun-room and announced everything to be in readiness. He called Chris out
on to the terrace to assist him, and Aunt Philippa and Bertrand were
left--an ill-assorted couple--to watch and admire the result of his
efforts. Aunt Philippa invariably maintained a demeanour of haughty
reserve if she found herself alone with her host's French secretary, an
attitude in which he as invariably acquiesced with an impenetrable
silence which she resented without knowing why. He was always courteous,
but he never tried to be agreeable to her, and this also Aunt Philippa
resented, though she would have mercilessly snubbed any efforts in that
direction had he exerted himself to make them.

The night was dark and still, an ideal night for fireworks. Noel began
with the failures which he had not the heart to waste. He was keeping the
choicest of his collection till the last. Consequently there were a good
many crackling explosions on the ground with nothing but a few sparks to
compensate for the noise, and Aunt Philippa very speedily tired of the
din.

"This is childish as well as dangerous," she said. "I shall go to the
library. There will at least be peace and quietness there."

"Without doubt," said Bertrand.

He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which
he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in
comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.

A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand. The failures were
apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces. Chris's
quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching. Yet he frowned a
little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish
ring that he had been wont to hear. What had come to her of late? Was it
true that she had told him on the night of Cinders' death? Was she indeed
grown-up? If so--he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a
glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel's Roman candles--had
the time come for him to go? He had always faced the fact that she would
not need him when her childhood was left behind. And certainly of late
she had not seemed to need him. She had even--he fancied--avoided him at
times. He wondered wherefore. Could it have been at her aunt's
instigation? Surely not. She was too staunch for that.

There remained another possibility, and, af