Trevor Mordaunt was a man of many friends—friends in all ranks and of many nationalities. No one knew quite how he made them; no one ever saw his friendships in the making. But all over the world were men who hailed his coming with pleasure and saw him go with regret.
She supposed him capable of a vast sympathy, a wide understanding. It seemed the only explanation. But would he understand her little Chris? she wondered. Would he make full allowance for her dear caprices, her whimsical fancies, her butterfly temperament? Would he ever thread his way through these fairy defences to that hidden shrine where throbbed her woman's heart? And would he be the first to enter there? She hoped so; she prayed so.
"Hilda"—imperiously the gay voice broke through her reverie—"if Percy wants to know what sort of pendants to give the bridesmaids, be sure you say turquoise and pearl. It's most important."
She was still strumming her waltz, and did not hear Mordaunt enter behind her.
"I saw a most lovely thing to-day," she went on. "One of those heart-shaped things that are still hearts even if you turn them upside down."
"Is that an advantage?" asked Mordaunt.
She whizzed round on the music-stool. "Trevor! I wish you wouldn't make me jump. Of course it is an advantage if a thing never looks wrong way up. You will remember, won't you, Hilda? Turquoise and pearl."
"Are you going to be chief mourner?" asked Rupert.
"Don't be horrid! I'm going to be chief bridesmaid, if that's what you mean?"
"And turquoise and pearl is to be the order of the day?" queried
Mordaunt.