That roused her. She stretched out her arms with a vague, sleepy murmur, smiled, opened her eyes.
"Oh, Trevor!" she said. "You!"
He stooped over her. "Chris, is anything the matter?"
She looked at him. "I don't know," she said slowly. "I forget."
"Poor child!" he said. "It's a shame to make you remember. But I'm afraid it is inevitable. Won't you lie on the sofa? You will find it more comfortable."
"No," said Chris. "I like the floor the best. You can sit on the sofa, if Cinders doesn't mind. Has everyone gone, downstairs? Hasn't it been a dreadful day?" She leaned her head against his knee with a sigh of weariness. "I do think getting married is a dreadful business," she said.
His hand was on her hair, the beautiful, burnished hair that Mademoiselle Gautier had deemed one of her most dangerous possessions. He did not try to see her face, and perhaps for that very reason Chris leaned against him with complete confidence.
"So you don't want to be married?" he said, after a moment.
"No, I don't!" she said, with vehemence. "I think marriage is dreadful—dreadful, when you come to look at it close." She moved her head under his hand; for an instant her face was raised. "Trevor, you don't mind my saying it, do you?"
"I want you to say exactly what is in your mind," he made grave reply.