She hesitated. "I never told even him about that night in the Magic Cave,
Bertie."
"No?" he said, his quick eyes upon her. "But why not?"
She shook her head with vehemence. "I couldn't. Everyone—even Jack—made such a fuss at the time—as if—as if"—she turned crimson—"I had done something really wicked. I'm sure I don't know why. I always said so."
There was defiance as well as distress in her voice. Bertrand leaned a little towards her.
"Mr. Mordaunt would not think like that," he said, with conviction.
She looked at him dubiously. "I'm not so sure. He has extraordinary views on some things. I never quite know how he will take anything. Other people are the same. You are the only person I am quite sure of."
He smiled, but not as if greatly elated. "That is because we are pals," he said.
"Yes, I know. It's good to have a pal who understands." Chris spoke a little wistfully, but almost instantly dismissed the matter. "Why, I am forgetting! You haven't seen Cinders yet, and I told him you were coming. He is upstairs. Shall we go and find him?"
They went up together. Half-way up she slipped her hand into his, with a soft little laugh. "It's like old times, Bertie. Don't break the spell, preux chevalier. Let us pretend—just for to-night!"
They found Cinders imprisoned in a little sitting-room at the top of the house which Chris shared with her cousin. His greeting of Bertrand was effusive, even rapturous. Like his mistress, he never forgot a friend.