"But I—I have slept," she stammered.
He put the hair gently back from her forehead. "I know all about it," he said.
She started away from him in sheer panic. "About what?" she gasped, in a whisper; then, seeing his brows go up, "Oh, Trevor, I—I'm sorry. No, I haven't slept very well. But—"
"I thought not," he interposed quietly. "Well, sleep now, dear."
He turned to go, but impulsively she caught his hand, held it a moment, then suddenly put it to her lips. But she would not look at him, would not even raise her eyes again; and he, after the briefest pause, withdrew his hand, touched her cheek with it lightly, and so left her.
When they met again at the breakfast-table she was discussing with Aunt Philippa the best means of spending the day. Bertrand was not present. He usually took chocolate at that hour in Mordaunt's room, where he could continue his secretarial work uninterrupted. Noel was not yet down.
Chris turned at once to address her husband. "I have had a line from Max. He is coming down for a few days I think he hasn't been well—overworking, he says."
"I can scarcely believe," said Aunt Philippa, with her acid smile, "that a Wyndham could ever suffer from that complaint."
"They don't over-rest, anyhow," said Mordaunt, with a glance at his wife's tired face. "I shall be very pleased to see him, Chris. Write and tell him so."
"I don't think I need write," she said. "He will be here this afternoon. Shall I ask Rupert to come over and dine, so that we can all be together—that is, if Aunt Philippa doesn't mind?"