"Trevor," she said, "what is the matter?"
There was a species of desperate courage in the low question. The fingers that grasped her wrapper were tightly clenched.
He closed the window. "Have you been lying awake for me?" he said. "I am sorry."
"Something is the matter," she said with conviction. "Won't you tell me what it is? I—I would rather know."
"I will tell you in the morning, dear," he said gently. "You must go back to bed. I am coming myself now."
But Chris stood still. "I want to know now, please, Trevor," she said. "I shall not sleep at all unless I know."
He put his arm about her, looking down at her with great tenderness.
"Must I tell you now?" he said, a hint of weariness in his voice.
She did not resist his touch, but neither did she yield herself to him. She stood within the encircling arm, looking straight up at him with wide, resolute eyes.
"It is something to do with Bertie," she said, in the same tone of unquestioning conviction.
He raised his eyebrows. "What makes you think so?"