She gave him her hands impulsively. "Bertie!" she cried. "We shall always be pals—always—all our lives; but don't—dear, don't smile at me like that! I can't bear it!"
He held her hands very tightly; he had wholly ceased to smile. But still gallantly he shielded her from the danger she had not begun to see. He did it instinctively, because of the love he bore her, and because of the innocence in her eyes.
"But what is it?" he said. "It is necessary that we smile sometimes, chérie, since to weep is futile, and laughter is always more precious than tears. Ah! that is better. You smile yourself. It is always thus that I remember my little friend of Valpré. She was ever too brave for tears."
He pressed her hands encouragingly, and again he let them go. But the strain was telling upon him. There was one subject which he could not trust himself to broach.
And for some reason Chris could not broach it either. She took refuge in every-day affairs; she told him of the giddy doings that kept her occupied from morning till night, of Cinders (the mention of whose name kindled a reminiscent gleam in the Frenchman's eyes), of the coming birthday dance, which he must promise to attend.
He shook his head over that; such gaieties were not for him. But Chris pressed the point with much persistence. Of course he must come. It would be no fun without him. Did he remember that birthday picnic at Valpré, and—and the night they had passed in the Magic Cave? She spoke of it with heightened colour and a hint of defiance which was plainly not directed against him.
"And I was afraid of the dragon," she said. "And you held my hand. I remember it so well. And afterwards I went to sleep, and slept all night long with my head on your shoulder."
"You were but a child," he said softly.
"But it seems like yesterday," she answered.
And then it was that the door opened very quietly, and Trevor Mordaunt came in upon them, sitting together in the gloom.