"I'll help you, Bertie. I'll be all I can ... as your friend ... remember, only as your friend."
"Child, do you take me for a brute?" he said, as he drew her down beside him.
Poor Friendship, lending his cloak once more, standing mournfully as Love flings it over his pink shoulders; knowing so well how the god liked to hide and mock beneath the solid folds.
"Oh! I am so tired, Estelle," said Bertie.
Friends only—the cloak held firmly. But friends' lips do not meet with a thrill of joy; friends do not know the unrestful happiness which came to these two as they sat hand-in-hand—their two years' sham fight over.
CHAPTER XIII
"OH, bother!" said Denise Blakeney. "Bother!"
"What is it, Den?"
Sir Cyril sat on his wife's bed; he was up early, out about the place, arranging the day, looking at his horses, his herd of shorthorns, speaking to the keepers. His men feared Sir Cyril, and served him well.