He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh. "It is only in the morning that I am tired," he said. "It is nothing—a weakness that passes. Or if it passes not—I go."
"Go!" repeated Chris, startled.
He turned his head towards her. "That surprises you, yes? But how can I remain if I cannot work?"
"Oh, but you haven't been here a fortnight," she said quickly. "I expect the change of air has upset you. And it has been so hot too."
He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested. His dark eyes watched her gravely. Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.
Chris was not slow to perceive this. "What are you thinking of?" she demanded.
"I am thinking of you," he answered promptly.
"What of me?" The blue eyes met his quite openly. Chris was always frank to her pals.
"I was thinking," he said, in his soft, friendly voice, "how you were happy, and how I was glad."
She threw him a quick smile. "How nice of you, Bertie! And how beautifully French! But, you know, I shan't be happy if you talk of leaving us. It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely miserable."