At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly lowered his eyes again. And still he said no word. He only drew his brows together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.
Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.
"Bertie," she said, in a whisper, "you're not—vexed?"
His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her with a smile. "Vexed!" he said. "With you! A thousand times—no!"
She smiled back, reassured. "Then will you—please—try to forget what you have lost? I know it won't be easy, but will you try? It's the only possible way to be happy. And if you are not happy—I shan't be either."
He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own. "You know not what I have lost," he said. "But—if I try to forget—that will content you?"
She nodded. "Yes, Bertie."
He looked at her intently for a moment, then, "Eh Bien!" he said briskly. "I will try."
"Bon garçon!" she said, with a merry smile. "That is settled, then. Why, there is Trevor! Has he finished that article of his already? He looked quite absorbed when I passed his window half an hour ago." She waved to him as he approached. "Why don't you wear a hat, you mad Englishman? Don't you know the sun is broiling?"
He smiled and ignored the warning. Bertrand sprang from his chair as he reached them, but Mordaunt instantly pressed him down again.