"What is it, old chap?" It was Max Wyndham's voice, but pitched so low that Chris scarcely recognized it.
The head on the pillow moved, turning towards the speaker. "So, mon ami, you are still there?"
"What is it you are wanting?" Max said.
Bertrand drew a breath that was cut short and ended in a gasp. "Mon ami, I only want—to hold her little hand in mine—and to hear her say—that she is—happy."
And then it was that Chris moved forward, as if impelled by a volition not her own, and knelt down by Bertrand's side.
"Do you want me, Bertie?" she said. "I've come, dear! I've come!"
He put out his hand to her at once, but slowly, as though feeling his way. "Christine!" he said.
She took the groping hand, and held it fast pressed between her own.
"Yes, dear?" she murmured.
"You are really here?" he said. "It is not—a dream?"
"No, Bertie, no! It is I myself, here with you at Valpré."