"M. Bertrand is my secretary," said Mordaunt quietly.
"Oh, is he? And you never told me! But what a splendid idea!" Chris stood between the two men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is quite the nicest man in the world."
Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.
"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will be great fun—just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay smile at her fiancé, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of her childhood. "Au revoir, preux chevalier! You will come to my birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if you don't bring him, I shall come all by myself and fetch him."
"No, you mustn't do that," Mordaunt answered with decision.
"Then will you bring him?"
"I will do my best," he promised gravely.
"Will you really? Oh, thank you, Trevor. I shall expect you then, Bertie.
Good-bye!"
Her hand lay for a couple of seconds in his, and he bent low over it, but he did not speak in answer.
She went out of the room with the silent Englishman. He heard her laughing as they went downstairs. He heard her gay young voice a while longer in the hall below. Then came the throb of a motor and the closing of the street door. She was gone.