She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the child she seemed.
But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands fast clasped in his.
"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie, you're crying too!"
"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain, my little one, my bird of Paradise—"
"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that any more. I—I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I didn't? Well"—there came a sharp catch in her voice—"we shall both be grown-up now."
And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up,
drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie?
You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me,
Bertie!"
He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It is possible that—"
She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here.
I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"
"But yes," he said. "Only, petite—"
"You will promise, then?" she broke in, as though she had not heard the last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You—you—wouldn't add to it all!"