"Ah, oui! We are friends, are we not?" A curious expression of relief took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had been afraid. "And you ask me if I am unhappy," he said. "Mais vraiment—I know not what to say!"
"Then you are!" she said, quick pain in her voice.
He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he did not offer to touch it. His eyes remained downcast as he spoke. "I am more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine."
"You like your work?" she questioned. "Trevor is kind to you?"
"He is—much too kind," the Frenchman answered, with feeling.
"But still you are unhappy?" she said.
"It is—my own fault," he told her, still not looking at her.
She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically. "Bertie, don't you think—if you tried very hard—you might manage to forget all that old trouble?"
There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.
She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so. "You know, Bertie, you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things left. It's such a pity to keep on grieving. Don't you think so? It seems rather a waste of time. And I do—so—want you to be happy."