CHAPTER XIII
PALS
"Ah! now for a good talk," said Chris. "We have got at least half an hour. Are you tired, Bertie, or only bored?"
But he was neither, he assured her. He had enjoyed his evening greatly. No, he had not danced. He had found it enough diverting to look on tranquilly in a corner. Mais oui, everybody had been most kind, including his hostess, to whom he paid a special tribute of appreciation. He had found her as gracious as she was beautiful.
"Did she try to pump you?" asked Chris.
He raised his brows in humorous bewilderment. But to pump—what was it? To ask questions? Ah yes, she had asked him several questions. He had not answered all of them. He feared she had found him a little stupid. But she had been very patient with him, ah! so patient—he spread out his hands, with the old, quick smile, and Chris's peal of laughter echoed far and wide.
"Bertie, you're too heavenly for words! Then she didn't find out about Valpré? She thinks—I suppose she thinks—that Trevor introduced us to each other."
"I do not know what she thinks," the Frenchman made answer. "But no, we did not speak of Valpré! That is a secret, hein?"
"Not exactly a secret. I told Max. But Aunt Philippa—oh, she is so different. She never understands things," said Chris. "I daresay she will find out from Trevor as it is; but I hope she won't—I do hope she won't!"
He smiled comprehendingly. "But Mr. Mordaunt—he understands, yes?" he said.