"Oh, but you, my own preux chevalier!" Chris's voice trembled upon the words.
He made a quick, restraining gesture. "But no—not that!" he said. "Your friend always, petite, but your preux chevalier—never again!"
Chris smiled, with quivering lips. "You will never be anything but my preux chevalier so long as you live," she said. "Oh, Bertie, I'm so distressed—so grieved—to think of all you have had to bear. I never dreamt of its being you. You know, I never heard your name. We went away so suddenly from Valpré. I had no time to think of anything. I—I was very miserable—afterwards." Her voice sank; her eyes were full of tears. "I knew you would think I had forgotten, but indeed, indeed it wasn't that!"
"Ah, pauvre petite!" he said gently.
"And you didn't know my name either, did you?" she said. "I kept telling myself you would find out somehow and write—but you never did."
He spread out his hands. "But what could I do? Your name was not known. And I—I could not leave Valpré to seek you. My duties kept me at the fortress. And so—and so—I said that I would wait until my fortune was well assured, and then—then—" He stopped. "But that is past," he said, with an odd little smile that somehow cut her to the heart. "Et maintenant tell me of yourself, petite, of all your affairs. Much may arrive in four years. But first—you are happy, yes?"
Eagerly the dark eyes sought hers as he asked the question.
Chris looked back at him with a little frown. "Yes, I am happy, Bertie.
At least—I should be happy—if it weren't for thinking of you. Oh,
Bertie, that horrid gun! I always hated it!"
Again her voice quivered on the verge of tears, and again with a quick gesture he stayed her.
"We will speak of it no more," he said. "See! We turn another page in the book of life, and we commence again. Let us remember only, Christine, that we are good comrades, you and I. But it is a good thing, this camaraderie. It gives us pleasure, yes?"