Her eyes shone. "How lovely! And the boys, too—and Bertie?"
He surveyed the eager face for a few seconds in silence. Then, "Chris," he said, "would it mean a very great sacrifice to you if I asked for the first fortnight with you alone?"
He was watching her closely, watching for the faintest suggestion of disappointment or hesitancy in the clear eyes, but he detected neither. Chris beamed upon him tranquilly.
"Why, I should love it! There's no end of things I want to show you. And we can make it all snug before Bertie and the boys come. But, of course"—she became suddenly serious—"I must have Cinders with me."
"Oh, we won't exclude Cinders," he said.
She laughed—the gay, sweet laugh he loved to hear. "That's settled, then. And you'll make Aunt Philippa promise not to tell, for of course that would spoil everything. Oh, and Trevor, you won't discuss Bertrand with her? Promise!"
He looked at her keenly for a moment, met only the coaxing confidence of her eyes, and decided to ask no question.
"My dear," he said, "as far as Bertrand is concerned, your Aunt Philippa and I have nothing to discuss."
"That's all right," said Chris, with relief. "Trevor, you've done me a lot of good. You are quite the most comforting man I know. I'm not frightened any more, and I'll never be such a little idiot again as long as I live."
She rose with the words, stood a moment with her hand on his shoulder, then stooped and shyly kissed his forehead.