without emotion.

"Monsieur," Bertrand said again, and there was entreaty in his voice,
"out of your great goodness of heart you have brought _la petite_ to
say adieu to me. Will you not--extend that goodness--a little farther?
Will you not--now that you understand--now that you understand"--he
repeated the phrase insistently--"remove the estrangement of which I have
been--the so unhappy cause?"

"Bertie, no--no!" There was sharp pain in Chris's voice. She raised
herself quickly. "You don't understand, dear, and I--can't explain. But
you are not to ask that of him. I can't bear it."

There was a quiver of passion in the last words. It was as though they
were uttered in spite of her.

Mordaunt stood motionless, in utter silence. His face was in shadow.

Bertrand turned to the kneeling girl. "Will you, then, plead for
yourself, _cherie_?" he said. "He will not refuse you. He knows all."

"No, no; he doesn't," said Chris.

"But you will tell him," urged Bertrand gently. "See, I cannot leave
you--my two good friends--thus. Since I have caused so much trouble
between you, I must do my possible to redress the evil. _Cherie_, promise
me--that you will go back to him. Not otherwise shall I die happy."

"I can't!" whispered Chris. "I can't!"

"But why not?" he said. "You love him, yes?"

But Chris was silent. She was trembling from head to foot.

"I know that you love him," Bertrand said, with confidence. "And for
that--you will go back to him. You cannot live your life apart from him.
You belong to him, Christine, and he--he belongs to you. Mr. Mordaunt--my
dear friend--is it not so?"

But before he could answer, feverishly Chris again broke in. "Bertie,
hush--hush! It isn't right! It isn't fair! Oh, forgive me for saying it!
But can't you see that it isn't? He has forgiven me, and we are friends.
But you mustn't ask any more than that, because--because it's no use." A
sudden sob rose in her throat. She swallowed it with an immense effort.
"He has been kind to me--for your sake," she said, "not my own. I have
done nothing to deserve his kindness. I have never been worthy of him,
and he knows it. I married him, loving you. Oh no, I didn't know it, but
I ought to have known. And when I did know, I would have left him and
gone with you. Nothing can ever alter that. And do you suppose he will
ever forget it? Because I know--I know--that he never can!"

She ceased abruptly, and turned aside to battle with her agitatio