"I did not like him," said Bertrand, with precision.
"That's all right," said Noel approvingly. "But he's reigning favourite with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye. Rum, isn't it? And little Pouncefort puts up with it like a lamb. But they say he's just as bad. Daresay he is, though he's quite a decent little beggar to talk to. I can't stand Mrs. Pouncefort at any price, while as for that Frenchman"—he made a hideous grimace—"I'm glad you are not all alike, Bertrand!"
Bertrand responded to the compliment without elation. He seemed preoccupied, and Noel, finding him uninteresting, turned his cheerful attention elsewhere.
Letters awaited them upon their return. Chris took up hers with scarcely a glance, and went up to her room.
Her husband, following a little later, found her sitting on a couch by the window, perusing them. She glanced up at his entrance.
"I have a letter from Aunt Philippa. She thinks we must be quite settled by this time, and she wants to spend a day or two here next week, before she goes to Scotland."
"I suppose we can put up with her for a day or two," said Mordaunt.
Her smile was slightly strained as she returned to the letter. "I suppose we shall have to."
He came and stood beside her, looking down at her bent head. The burnished hair shone warmly golden in the evening sunlight. He laid a quiet hand upon it. She started at his touch, and then sat very still.
"I have heard from Hilda too," she said, after a moment. "They are staying at Graysdale. Percy fishes all day and she sketches, when they are not motoring. It was very sweet of her to write by return."