"Next year," suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.
"Perhaps," she said, a little dubiously.
Bertrand said nothing. He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line, even beyond the sea itself.
The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they turned in at the wide-flung gates. Chris's eyes kindled almost in spite of her. She loved all things military.
As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse scenting battle. Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.
She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he looked at her with his quick smile of understanding. He was ever swift to catch her meaning.
They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree, beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests. A large woman with a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were seldom wholly revealed—a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose charm was undeniable. Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many, but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled antagonism. They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.
She greeted Chris with a cold, limp hand. "So nice of you to come. I hope you won't be bored. Ah, Mr. Mordaunt, how is Kellerton Old Park by this time? I hardly recognized it the day I called. Rupert tells me you have worked wonders inside as well as out."
"May I introduce our friend Monsieur Bertrand?" said Chris.
Bertrand brought his heels together and bowed low over the limp hand transferred to his. Mrs. Pouncefort smiled.