He was somewhat breathless when he arrived outside the door of Chris's little sanctum, but he did not pause on that account. He knocked with his hand already upon the handle, and almost immediately turned it.
"I can come in?" he asked.
A muffled bark from Cinders was the only answer—a warning bark, as though he would have the intruder tread softly.
Mordaunt trod softly in consequence, softly entered, softly closed the door.
He found his little fiancée crouched on the floor beside an ancient sofa, her arms resting upon it and her head sunk upon them. Cinders, very alert, bristling with importance, mounted guard on the sofa itself.
For Chris was asleep, curled up in her bridesmaid finery, a study in white and blue, with a single splash of vivid red-gold where the sunlight touched her hair.
Cinders growled below his breath as Mordaunt approached. He also wagged his tail, though without effusion. The visitor was welcome so far as he was concerned, but he must make no disturbance. A canny little beast was Cinders.
And so, noiselessly, Mordaunt drew near, and bent above the child upon the floor. He saw that she had been crying. Even in repose her face looked wan, and there was a soaked morsel of lace that had evidently been quite inadequate for the occasion crumpled up in one hand.
What was the trouble? he wondered, and wished with all his heart that
Cinders could impart it. He had no doubt that Cinders knew.
It seemed almost cruel to awake her, but neither could he bring himself to leave her as she was. He looked to Cinders for inspiration. And Cinders, with a flash of intelligence that proved him more than beast, if less than human, lowered his queer little muzzle and licked his mistress's face.