She nodded. "Yes, Bertie."
He looked at her intently for a moment, then, "Eh Bien!" he said briskly. "I will try."
"Bon garçon!" she said, with a merry smile. "That is settled, then. Why, there is Trevor! Has he finished that article of his already? He looked quite absorbed when I passed his window half an hour ago." She waved to him as he approached. "Why don't you wear a hat, you mad Englishman? Don't you know the sun is broiling?"
He smiled and ignored the warning. Bertrand sprang from his chair as he reached them, but Mordaunt instantly pressed him down again.
"No, no, man! Sit still! I have only come out for a moment."
"But I am going," Bertrand protested. "I cannot sit and do nothing. There are those accounts that you have given me to do. They are not yet finished. Also—"
"Also, they are not going to be done to-day," Mordaunt said, shaking him gently by the shoulder. "Chris, I am going to hand this fellow over to you for the next few days. You can do what you like with him so long as you don't let him do any work. That I absolutely forbid. You understand me, Bertrand?"
"But I cannot—I cannot," Bertrand said restlessly. "You are already much too good to me. You overwhelm me with kindness, and I—I make no return at all. No, listen to me—"
"I'm not going to listen to you," Mordaunt said. "You are talking nonsense, my friend, arrant drivel—nothing less. Chris will tell you the same."
"Of course," said Chris. "Besides, there are crowds of things you can do for me. No, he shan't be overworked, I promise you, Trevor. But I'm going to try a new cure. Just for this afternoon he is going to lie in the hammock and smoke cigarettes. But after to-day"—she nodded gaily at the perturbed Frenchman—"after to-day, Bertie, nous verrons!"
He smiled in spite of himself, but he continued to look dissatisfied till
Mordaunt carelessly turned the conversation.
"Where's that young beggar Noel?"
"Fishing in the Home Meadow," said Chris.
"Quite sure?"
"I think so," she said. "Why?"
"Because he has taken one of my guns, and I believe he is potting rabbits."
Chris sat up with consternation in her eyes. "Trevor! I believe he is too! I heard someone shooting half an hour ago. And he has got Cinders with him! I know he will go and shoot him by mistake!"
"Or himself," said Mordaunt grimly.
"Oh, he won't do that," said Chris with confidence. "Nothing ever happens to Noel."
"Something will happen to him before long if he doesn't behave himself," observed Mordaunt. "My patience began to wear thin last night when I caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow."
"Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays," pleaded Chris.
"Does he?" Mordaunt's voice was uncompromising.
She slipped a quick hand into his. "Trevor, you wouldn't spoil his fun?"
He looked down at her, faintly smiling. "My dear Chris, it depends upon the fun. I'm not going to have the place burnt down for his amusement."
"Oh no," she said. "But you won't be strict with him, will you? He will only do things on the sly if you are."
Mordaunt frowned abruptly. "If I catch him doing anything underhand—"
She broke in sharply in evident distress. "But we all do, Trevor! I—I've done it myself before now—often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with Aunt Philippa. One has to, you know. At least—at least—" His grey eyes suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had begun.
There was a moment's silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away. "I think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to."
She jumped up. "I'll come too."
He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand's. At once the
Frenchman spoke.
"But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses? It is growing late, is it not? And you will be out this afternoon. Permit me to assist you with them."
He picked up the basket as he spoke. Chris stopped irresolute. Her husband was already moving away over the grass.
"Come!" said Bertrand persuasively.
Chris turned with a smile and took the basket. "All right, Bertie, let's go. It is getting late, as you say, and I must get the vases filled."
They went away together to the rose-garden, and here, after brief hesitation, Chris voiced her fears.
"I'm so afraid lest Trevor should ever get really angry with any of the boys. They won't stand it, you know. And he—I sometimes think he is just a little hard, don't you?"
Mordaunt's secretary pondered this proposition with drawn brows. "No," he said finally, "he is not hard, but he is very honourable."
Chris laughed aloud. "That sounds just like a French exercise, Bertie. I don't see what being honourable has to do with it, except that the people who preen themselves on being honourable are just the ones who can't make allowances for those who are not. You would think, wouldn't you, that being good would make people extra kind and forgiving? But it doesn't, you know. Look at Aunt Philippa!"
Bertrand's grimace was expressive. "And Aunt Philippa is good, yes?"
"Frightfully good," said Chris. "I don't suppose she ever told a story in her life."
His quick eyes sought hers. "And that—that is to be good?"
Chris paused an instant, her attention caught by the question. "Why, I suppose so," she said slowly. "Don't you call that goodness?"
He spread out his hands. "Me, I think it is the smallest kind of goodness. One does not lie, one does not steal; but what of that? One does not roll oneself in the mud. And that is a virtue, that?"
Chris became keenly interested. "Do go on, Bertie! I had no idea you thought such a lot. I don't myself—often."
He laughed, his sudden pleasant laugh that he uttered now so rarely. "But I am no philosopher," he said. "Simply I think—a little—sometimes. And to me—to be honourable is no more a virtue than to wash the hands. One cannot do otherwise and respect oneself."
"No?" said Chris, a little dubiously. "Then, Bertie, if honour is not goodness, what is?"
He shrugged his shoulders. "Goodness? Bah! There is no goodness without love."
"Oh!" Chris's eyes opened wide. "You think—that?"
He nodded with vehemence. "Si, chérie! I think—that; more, I know it. I know that 'Love is the fulfilling of the law.' One does not need to go further than that. It is enough, no?" His eyes looked straight into hers; they were shining with the light that only friendship can kindle.
She smiled back at him. "I should almost think it is, Bertie. It is enough for you anyhow, since you believe it."
"Ah, yes," he said very earnestly. "I believe it, Christine. I should not be here now—if I did not believe it."
She puckered her brows a little. "I don't quite know what you mean," she said.
He turned from her questioning eyes, pulling his hat down over his own.
"No," he said. "But—you know enough, ma petite, you know enough."
"I sometimes think I don't know anything," she said restlessly.
He stretched out a hand to her, as one who guides a child. "Ah, Christine," he said sadly, "but it is better to know the little than the much."
"You all say that," said Chris. "I think it is rather a horrid world for some things, don't you?"
"But the world is that which we make it," said Bertrand.
CHAPTER II
ONE OF THE FAMILY
"But, my dear chap, what bally rot! Anyone would think I'd never smoked a pipe or handled a gun before, when I've done both for years."
Noel Wyndham's smile was the most engaging part of him; it had the knack of disarming the most wrathful. It had served him many a time in the hour of retribution, and he never scrupled to make use of it. It was quite his most valuable asset.
"Don't be waxy, old chap," he pleaded, slipping an affectionate hand inside his brother-in-law's unresponsive arm. "I've been having such a high old time. And I'm not a bloomin' kid. I know what I'm about."
"All very well," Mordaunt said. "I don't object to anything in reason.
But you are too fond of taking French leave with other people's property.
That gun, for instance—"
"Oh, that's all right," the boy assured him eagerly. "It kicks most infernally, but I soon got the trick of it after a bruise or two. I say, you haven't seen anything of that little devil Cinders? He's gone down a rabbit-hole. Won't Chris be in a stew?"
Mordaunt possessed himself of the gun without further argument. "Then you'd better set to work and find him. Chris is going out this afternoon."
"In the motor?" Noel's eyes shone. "I'll go, too. You needn't bother about Cinders. He always turns up sooner or later. Don't tell Chris, or she'll spend the rest of the day hunting for him."
"She will probably want to know," observed Mordaunt.
"I shall say I never had him," said Noel unconcernedly. "He won't come to any harm, but you can turn that secretary fellow of yours on to the job if you're feeling anxious. I say, Trevor, we shan't want the chauffeur. Tell them, will you?"
"You certainly won't go without him," Mordaunt rejoined. "And look here,
Noel, you're not to tell lies. Understand?"
Noel looked up with a flicker of temper in his Irish eyes, "Oh, rats!" he said.
"Understand?" Mordaunt repeated. "It's the one thing I won't put up with, so make up your mind to that."
He spoke quite temperately, but with unswerving decision. His eyes looked hard into Noel's, and the boy's spark of resentment went out like an extinguished match.
"I say, I like you!" he said with enthusiasm. "You're a regular sport!"
"Thank you," Mordaunt returned gravely.
"And what about Chris?" Noel proceeded mischievously. "Isn't she allowed to tell lies, either?"
Mordaunt stiffened. "Chris knows better."
"Oh, does she?" Noel yelled derision. "My dear chap, you'll kill me! Why, she—she's about the worst of us. I never knew anyone lie quite like Chris when occasion arises."
He broke off. Mordaunt had shaken his arm free with an abruptness not far removed from violence.
"That's enough," he said sternly. "I don't advise you to say any more upon that subject."
"But I assure you it's the truth," Noel protested. "She can look you straight in the face and swear that black is white till you actually believe it. I assure you she can."
He spoke with such naïve admiration of the achievement that Trevor Mordaunt, on the verge of anger, found himself checked suddenly by an irrepressible desire to laugh.
Noel saw and seized upon his advantage. "But I daresay she wouldn't to you. She gets everything she wants without. I must say you're jolly decent to all of us. I'm sorry I took your gun—didn't know it was one you particularly valued. I'd get one of my own only I'm so beastly hard up. I suppose you couldn't lend me a fiver now, could you?"
He tucked his hand back into Mordaunt's arm persuasively, and smiled his
winning smile. "I'll pay you back—with interest—when I come of age.
That'll be in five years. I wouldn't ask you if I couldn't. But I daresay
Chris can let me have it if you would rather not."
"No!" Mordaunt said very decidedly. "There must be no borrowing from Chris. I will give you five pounds if you are wanting it, but not to buy a gun with, and only on the understanding that for the future you come to me—and never to Chris—if you chance to be in difficulties."
"Oh yes, I'll promise that," said Noel readily. "But I don't want you to make me a present, old chap. I shall pay up some day. You shall have an I O U."
"Many thanks! I don't want one." Mordaunt began to smile. "Just keep straight and tell the truth," he said. "That's all the return I want."
"Really?" Noel's smile became a grin. "That's awfully decent of you. As a matter of fact, I don't believe even Chris could manage to deceive you. You're so beastly shrewd. But we'll call it a bargain if you like. You won't catch me trying to jockey you after this."
"Very well," Mordaunt said. "Then, on the strength of that, I want to know if you have ever had any money from Chris before."
"Why, of course I have!" Noel seemed surprised by the question. He spoke with the utmost frankness.
"How much?"
Mordaunt's smile had departed. He did not look altogether pleased, but
Noel was quite unimpressed.
"Oh, goodness knows!" he said lightly. "She has my I O U's."
"Which she must find very satisfying," remarked Mordaunt. "Now look here, boy! There must be no more of this. You will have to keep within your allowance in future."
"My dear chap, it's all jolly fine—I can't!" protested Noel. "Why, I only get about twopence-halfpenny a term. It isn't enough to pay a cat's expenses, besides being always up to the eyes in debt."
Mordaunt heaved a sigh of resignation. "I suppose I had better look into your affairs. Write down as clear a statement of your debts as you can, and let me have it."
"I say—really?" Noel looked up eagerly. "You're not in earnest?"
"Yes, I am. And afterwards—you are to keep within your means, or if you don't I must know the reason why."
Noel grinned with cheery impudence. "You'll swish me, I suppose, to improve my morals? Wish I had as many sovereigns as I've had swishings. They would keep me in clover for a year."
Mordaunt laughed rather grimly. "I don't waste my time licking hardened sinners like you. I've something better to do."
Noel echoed his laugh with keen enjoyment. "You're rather a beast, but I like you. Have you paid Rupert's debts, too? He is always on the verge of bankruptcy. Shouldn't wonder if Max is as well, but he keeps his affairs so dark. I expect he is in the hands of the money-lenders—I know Rupert was years ago."
"I don't think he is now," Mordaunt said.
"Don't you? What's the betting on that? He could no more keep out of their clutches than he could fly over the moon. I say"—he suddenly burst into a peal of boyish laughter—"it's the funniest thing on earth to see you shouldering the family burdens. How you will wish you hadn't! And that French beggar you've adopted, too, who is safe to rob you sooner or later! Why don't you start a home for waifs and strays at once? I'll help you run it. I'll do the accounts."
Mordaunt laughed, in spite of himself. "Very kind of you! But I think there are enough of you for the present."
"All highly satisfactory," grinned Noel. "What a pity you didn't marry
Aunt Philippa, I say! She would have been much more useful to you than
Chris. Never thought of that, I suppose?"
"Never!" said Mordaunt.
"Poor old Aunt Phil!" Noel chuckled afresh. "She would have been in her element if you had only given her the chance. She hates us all like poison. I suppose you know why?"
"Haven't an idea," Mordaunt spoke repressively, "unless your general behaviour has something to do with it."
"Oh, very likely it has," Noel conceded. "But the chief reason was that our father diddled her out of a lot of money. He was hard up, and she was rolling. So he—borrowed a little." He glanced at Mordaunt with a queer grimace. "Most unfortunately he didn't live to pay it back. I shouldn't tell anyone this, but I don't mind telling you, as you are one of the family."
"And who told you?" Mordaunt inquired.
"Me? I overheard it."
"How?"
The question came sternly, but Noel was sublimely unabashed.
"The usual way. How does one generally overhear things? I hid behind a shutter once when Aunt Phil and Murdoch, our man of business, were having a talk. She pitched it pretty strong, I can tell you. I should have felt quite sorry for the old girl if I hadn't known that her husband had left her more than she could possibly know what to do with. As it was, I was rather glad than otherwise, for she's disgustingly mean over trifles. And people who can shell out and won't should be made to."
Mordaunt received this axiom in silence. As a matter of fact he was somewhat staggered by the information thus airily imparted. But he did not question the truth of it. He only wondered that he had never considered such a possibility before.
Another shout of merriment from the boy at his side made him look round.
"Well? What's the joke?"
"You!" yelled the youngster, between his paroxysms. "I'm awfully sorry. You're such a good sort. But I can't help it. I say, Trevor—aren't you glad just—that you're one of the family?"
Mordaunt aimed a blow at him that he evaded with ease. "If you don't behave yourself I shall use the privilege in a fashion you won't care for," he said, "even if it is a waste of time."
At which threat Noel confidingly hooked his arm once more through that of his brother-in-law and begged him in a voice hoarse with laughter to stop rotting.
CHAPTER III
DISASTER
Chris and Noel set off in the motor that afternoon in excellent spirits to pay the projected call upon Mrs. Pouncefort.
They found the lady of the house at home, and spent an animated hour with her; for although she never appeared to welcome her visitors or to exert herself in any degree to entertain them, most of them seemed to find it difficult to get away.
When they departed at length they carried with them an invitation to a garden fête which had been arranged for the following week. It included the whole party, to Chris's great satisfaction.
"It will be the very thing for Bertie," she said. "It is just what he needs."
Noel, who entertained a sweeping prejudice against all foreigners, was inclined to dispute this, and a lively argument ensued in consequence, which lasted during the greater part of the run home.
Chris was at the wheel, being a fairly experienced driver by that time, though Mordaunt was very insistent that she should always have someone responsible by her side. On this occasion, however, Holmes, who was acting as chauffeur, had been imperiously relegated to the back seat by Noel, who intended to have his turn before the end of the ride. He had driven twice before under his brother-in-law's supervision, and he considered himself an expert.
As soon as they were through the lodge-gates, therefore, he began to clamour to change places with Chris. The worried Holmes protested in vain. Chris, though firmly refusing to sit behind, was quite willing to give her place at the wheel to her brother; and the change was speedily effected, remonstrance notwithstanding.
"We can't come to any harm on our own drive," was the careless consolation she threw to the perturbed man behind her, who then and there solemnly swore to his inner soul that whatever the outcome of the venture he would never again trust himself or the car to the tender mercies of the Wyndham family.
Finding himself thus ignored, he stood up and leaned over the boy's shoulder to give directions in the face of any sudden emergency that might arise, though Noel was obviously in no mood to pay any attention to them. As he remarked later, when recounting the adventure, he knew in his bones that there was going to be an accident; but the nature of it he could hardly be expected to foresee.
In fact, for a brief space all went well. The motor buzzed merrily along the drive, and it almost seemed as if the escapade would end without mishap, when, as they rounded the bend that led to the house, Noel unexpectedly put on speed. They shot forward at a great pace under the arching trees, and forthwith suddenly came disaster. Swift as a lightning flash it came—too swift for realization, almost too swift for sight. It was only a tiny, racing figure that darted for the fraction of a second in front of the car, and then—with a squeal half-choked—was lost in the rush of the wheels. It was only Cinders chasing a rabbit which he was destined never to catch.
Chris's shriek of agony rang as far as the house. In another moment she would have thrown herself headlong from the car, but Holmes was too quick for her. Not in vain had Holmes been through a three-years' war; not in vain did he hold himself responsible for the young wife of the master whom that war had taught him to love. Almost before she had sprung from her seat he had caught her, forcing her down again, holding her by grim strength from her mad purpose. She struggled with him fiercely, hysterically; but Holmes's grip never relaxed. She bore the marks of it upon her arms for weeks after.
And while he held her, baffling her utmost efforts to free herself, he was giving directions to Noel, whose nerve had departed completely with the shock of the catastrophe, giving them over and over again—steadily, insistently, and very distinctly, till they took effect at last, though only just in time.
They were dangerously near the house before, in response to the boy's frantic efforts, the car slackened and finally, under Holmes's reiterated directions, ran to a standstill.
Chris, in a perfect frenzy by that time, wrenched herself free and sprang down. Her husband, who had rushed from the house at her cry, was close to her as she reached the ground, but she sped away without so much as seeing him.
Back up the drive she tore, back to the shadowing trees, back to the piteous little blot in the shadow that was the only thing her world contained in that hour of anguish.
When they reached her she was sunk on the ground beside her favourite, crying his name, while he, whimpering, strove to drag his mangled body into her lap. She tried to lift him, but he yelped so terribly at her touch that she was forced to let him lie.
"Oh, Cinders, Cinders!" she cried, in an agony. "My little darling, what shall I do?"
Someone stooped over her; a quiet hand lay upon her shoulder. "Chris," it was her husband's voice, very grave and tender, "come away, dear. You can't do anything. The poor little chap is past our help."
She lifted a dazed face, staring uncomprehendingly.
"Come away," he repeated.
But when he tried to raise her she resisted him. "And leave him like this? No, never, never! Oh, Trevor, look—look! He is dying! Can't we do something—anything? Oh, he never cried like that before!"
"My dear, there is nothing that you can do." Very gently he made answer. "He can't possibly live. There is only one thing to be done, and that is to put him out of his pain as quickly as possible. But I can't do it with you here. So come away, dear! It's the kindest—in fact, it's the only—thing you can do."
"Are you going to—kill him?" gasped Chris in horror.
He nodded, with compressed lips. "There is no alternative. We can't let him suffer like this."
"Oh no, no, no!" Chris cried.
She would have thrown her arms about her darling, but he stopped her. He caught her wrists and held her back.
"Chris, you must not! When animals are hurt they will bite without knowing what they are doing. Chris, do you hear me? You must go."
But she would not. "Do you think I would leave him now—when he wants me most? And as if he would bite me—Cinders—Cinders—who never even growled at me!"
She bent over him again, beside herself with grief. Cinders, in the midst of his pain, tried gently to wag his tail. His brown eyes, faithful, appealing, full of love, gazed up at her. He had never seen his mistress in such trouble before, and the instinct to comfort her urged him even then, in the midst of his own. Again he made piteous efforts to crawl into her arms, but again he failed, and fell back, whimpering.
Chris covered her face. It was more than she could bear, and yet she could not—could not—leave him.
For a space that might have been minutes or only seconds she was left alone, tortured but impotent. A dreadful darkness had fallen upon her, a numbness in which Cinders, suffering and slowly dying, was the only reality.
Then again she became conscious of another presence. A quick hand touched her. A soft voice spoke.
"Ah, the poor Cinders! And he lives yet! Chérie, we will be kind to him, yes? We cannot make him live, but we will let him die quick—quick, so that he suffer no more. That is kind, that is merciful, n'est-ce-pas?"
She turned instinctively in answer to that voice. She held up her hands to the speaker like a child. "Oh, Bertie," she cried piteously, "is there nothing to be done? Nothing?"
"Only that, chérie," he made answer, very gently.
"Then"—she was sobbing terribly, but she suffered his hands to raise her—"don't let them—send me away, Bertie. I can't go—while he lives. It—it would hurt him more, if I went."
"No, no, chérie," he answered her reassuringly. "You will be brave, yes? See, I will hold your hand. We will go just across the road, but not beyond his sight. He will see you. He will know that you are near. There—there, chérie! Shut your eyes! It will be finished soon."
He put his arm around her, for she stumbled blindly. They went across the road as he had said, and halted under the trees on the farther side.
There followed a pause—an interval that was terrible—during which only the low crying of an animal in pain was audible.
Bertrand stood like a rock, still holding her. "But you will not look, chérie," he whispered to her softly. "It is deliverance—this death. Soon—soon he will not cry any more."
She pressed her face against his shoulder, wrapped in the close security of his arms, and waited, drawing each breath with difficulty, saying no word.
She did not know what was happening, and she dared not look. She could only wait in anguish for the whimpering that tore her heart to cease.
"Now, chérie!" whispered Bertrand at last, and she stiffened in his arms, preparing for she knew not what.
His hold tightened. For that instant he pressed her hard against his heart, so that she heard its quick beating.
The next there came a loud report—a sound that violently rent her stretched nerves, shattering them as glass is shattered by a stone. She drooped without sound like a broken flower, and the young Frenchman gathered her up, just as he had done on the occasion of their first meeting at Valpré, and bore her away.
CHAPTER IV
GOOD-BYE TO CHILDHOOD
Out of the dreadful darkness Chris groped her halting way, saw light, and, shuddering, closed her eyes again. But at once a voice spoke to her, soothingly, tenderly, calling her back.
Reluctantly she responded, reluctantly she returned to full consciousness, and knew that she was lying fully dressed upon a couch in the drawing-room. But at sight of her husband's face bending above her she shuddered again—a painful, convulsive shudder that shook her from head to foot.
He laid a quiet hand on her head, but she shrank away. "Please,
Trevor"—she faltered—"please, I want to be alone."
"Yes, dear," he made gentle reply. "Just drink this first, and I will leave you."
But she withdrew herself almost violently; she buried her face deep in the cushion. "I can't! I can't! Please don't ask me to. I am quite all right. I only want—to be alone."
She was shaking all over as one with an ague, and her words were hardly articulate. He waited a little for her trembling to pass, but it only increased till her whole body seemed to twitch uncontrollably. At last with the utmost quietness he stooped and deliberately raised her.
"Chris, my dear little girl, you mustn't let yourself go like this. I want you to take this stuff to steady you. Afterwards you will have a sleep and be better."
She did not absolutely resist him, but he felt her nervous contraction at his touch. The face she turned to his was ghastly in its pallor.
"I—I don't think I can, Trevor," she said, speaking very rapidly. "My throat won't swallow. It would only choke me. Please—please, if you don't mind—go away. I shall be all right if—if you will only go."
"I can't leave you like this," he said.
"Yes, yes, you can," she answered feverishly. "Oh, what does it matter?
Trevor, I must be alone. I must! I must! Please go!"
Her agitation was growing with every second, and he saw that he must yield. He laid her back again without a word, smoothed the cushions, touched her hair, and softly departed.
She listened tensely for the closing of the door, relaxing instantly the moment she heard it. A great darkness descended upon her soul. She lay motionless, face downwards, too stunned for thought.
A long time passed. It was growing late. Over the quiet garden the summer dusk was falling. The swallows were swooping through it in their multitudes—the swallows that Cinders loved to chase. To-night no cheery, impudent bark pursued their flight. To-night all was still.
Did they miss him? she began to wonder dully. Did they ask each other where he had gone? And then, half-consciously, she began to listen for him, the scamper of the light feet, the gay jingle of his collar, till in a moment she almost fancied that she heard him scratching at the door.
She was half off the sofa before realization stabbed her, and she sank back numbly into her desolation.
Again a long time passed—an interval not to be measured by hours or minutes. The swallows ceased to circle and went to roost. It began to be dark. And still Chris lay alone, a huddled, motionless figure, prostrate, crushed, inanimate. Her hands and feet were like ice, but she did not know it. She was past caring for such trifles. All her abounding vitality seemed to be arrested, as if her very blood had ceased to circulate.
It was growing late when the door opened at last. A figure stood a moment upon the threshold, then entered, moving with a quick, light tread that might have been the tread of a woman. In the darkness it reached her, bent over her.
"Ah, pauvre petite!" said a soft voice, a voice so full of compassion that it thrilled straight to her silent heart and made it beat again. "All alone with your grief! You permit me to intrude myself, no?"
She turned and felt up towards him with an icy hand. "Bertie!" she said.
"You—might have come before!"
He knelt swiftly down beside her, pressing the little trembling fingers against his neck to give them warmth. "But you are so cold!" he said. "You must not lie here any more."
"Why not?" she said dully. "I don't think it matters, does it?"
"But of course!" he made quick rejoinder. "When you suffer we suffer also. Also"—he paused an instant—"Mr. Mordaunt awaits you, petite. Will you not go to him?"
She shivered. "Need I, Bertie? I don't want to."
It was the cry of a child—a child in distress—plunged for the first time in the bitter waters of grief, turning instinctively to the friend of childhood for comfort. "I don't want anyone but you," she said piteously. "You understand. You loved him—and Trevor didn't."
"Oh, but, Christine—" Bertrand began.
"No, he didn't!" she maintained, with sudden vehemence. "I always knew he didn't. He put up with him for my sake; but he never loved him. He never noticed his pretty little ways. Once—once"—she began to sob—"it was on our wedding-day—he slapped him—for chasing a cat! My sweet wee Cinders!"
She broke down utterly upon the words, and there followed such a storm of tears that Bertrand was forced to abandon all attempts to reason with her, and could only kneel and whisper soft endearments in his own language, soothing her, comforting her, as though she were indeed the child she seemed.
But it was long before she even heard him, not until the paroxysm had spent itself and she lay passive and utterly exhausted, with her hands fast clasped in his.
"You are good to me," she murmured then, and in a moment, "Why, Bertie, you're crying too!"
"Ah, pardon me!" he whispered, under his breath. "But to see you in pain, my little one, my bird of Paradise—"
"No," she said, a strange note of conviction in her voice, "I shall never be that any more now that Cinders is gone. I shan't be young like that any more. I—I shall grow up now, Bertie. I daresay Trevor will like me the better for it. But you won't, dear. You will be sorry, I know. We've been playfellows always, haven't we, even though you grew up and I didn't? Well"—there came a sharp catch in her voice—"we shall both be grown-up now."
And then, all in a moment, as if some panic urged her, she started up,
drawing his hands close. "But we'll be friends still, won't we, Bertie?
You won't talk of going away any more, will you? Promise me! Promise me,
Bertie!"
He hesitated. "It might be better that I should go," he said slowly. "It is possible that—"
She interrupted him almost hysterically. "Oh no, no, no! I want you here.
I want you, Bertie, Don't you understand?"
"But yes," he said. "Only, petite—"
"You will promise, then?" she broke in, as though she had not heard the last words. "Bertie, I'm so miserable. You—you—wouldn't add to it all!"
"No, chérie, by Heaven, no!" he said, with vehemence.
"Then you'll stay, Bertie? You will stay?" Very earnestly she besought him. Her tears were dropping on his hands. "Say you will!"
For a moment longer he hesitated; he tried to resist her, he tried to take a sane and temperate view. But those tears were too much for him. They were the one torture he could not endure. With a sharp gesture he flung his hesitation from him. Yet even then he left himself a way of escape lest the temptation should be more than he could bear.
"I will stay," he made grave reply, "as long as it would make you happy to have me with you—that is"—he checked himself—"if Mr. Mordaunt desire it also."
"But of course he does," said Chris. "He likes you. And I—I can't do without you, Bertie—not now."
He heard the desolate note in her voice, and he did not contradict her.
Had he not sworn that while she needed him he would be at hand?
"Eh bien," he said soothingly. "I stay."
That comforted her somewhat, and presently, at his persuasion, she sat up and dried her eyes. It was too dark for them to see each other, but she held his hand very tightly; and there was comfort also in that.
"Now you will come away from here," he said. "Mr. Mordaunt is very troubled about you. He would not come to you himself because he thought that you did not desire him. But that was not true, no?"
Again that hard shudder went through Chris. She was silent for a little, them "Oh, Bertie," she whispered, "I wish—I wish—it hadn't been he who—who—" she broke off—"you know what I mean. You—saw!"
Yes, he knew. It was what Mordaunt himself had suspected, and loyally he entered the breach on his friend's behalf.
"Chérie—pardon me—that is not a good wish—not worthy of you. That which he did was most merciful, most brave, and he did it himself because he would not trust another. I wish it had been my hand—not his. Then you would have understood."
"I almost wish it had been!" whispered Chris; and then, her words scarcely audible, "But—but do you think—he—knew?"
"Le pauvre Cinders?" Very softly Bertrand spoke the dog's name. "No, Christine. He did not know. His head was turned the other way. His eyes regarded only you. And Mr. Mordaunt was so quiet, so steady. He aim his revolver quite straight, and his hand tremble—no, not once. Oh, believe me, petite, it was better to end it so."
"Yes, I know, only—only"—convulsively her hands closed upon his—"Bertie—Bertie—dogs do go to heaven, don't they?"
"I believe it, Christine."
"You do really—not just because I want you to?"
He drew her gently to her feet. "Chérie, I believe it, because I know that all love is eternal, and death is only an incident in eternity. Where there is love there is no death. Nothing that loves can die. It is the Divine Spark that nothing can ever quench."
He spoke with absolute conviction, almost with exultation; and the words went straight to Chris's heart and stayed there.
"You do comfort me," she said.
"I only tell you the truth," he made answer, "as I see it. We do not yet know the power of Love. We only know that it is the greatest of all. It is le bon Dieu in the world. And we meet Him everywhere—even in the heart of a dog."
"I shall remember that," she said.
Her hand still clung to his as they groped their way across the room. At the door for a moment she stayed him.
"I shall never forget your goodness to me, Bertie, never—never!" she said, very earnestly.
"Ah, bah!" he answered quickly. "But we are—pals!"
And with that he opened the door, almost as if impatient, and made her pass before him into the hall.
The lamplight dazzled Chris, and she stood for a moment uncertain. Then, as her eyes became accustomed to the change, she discovered her husband, standing a few yards away, looking at her.
He did not speak, merely held out his hand to her; and she went to him with a vagrant feeling of reluctance.
He put his arm about her, looking gravely into her wan face; but she turned from his scrutiny and leaned her head against his shoulder with a piteous little murmur of protest.
"Do you mind if I go to bed, Trevor?" she said, after a moment. "I—I'm very tired, and I don't want any dinner."
"You must have something, dear," he made answer, "but have it in bed by all means. I will bring it up to you in half an hour."
She made a slight movement which might have meant dissent, but which remained unexplained. For a little she stood passive, leaning against him as though she lacked the energy to go, but at length she made a move. Glancing round, she saw that Bertrand had departed.
"Where is Noel?" she asked.
"In his room."
She looked up sharply, detecting a hint of grimness in his voice.
"Trevor"—she halted a little—"are you—vexed with anybody?"
His face softened at her tone. "Never mind now, dear," he said. "You are worn out. Get to bed."
She put her hand to her head with a weary gesture. "But why—why is Noel in his room?"
"Because I sent him there."
"You!" She stared at him, fully roused from her lethargy. "Trevor! Why?"
"I will tell you tomorrow," he said, frowning slightly. "I can't have you upset any more tonight."
"But, Trevor—"
"Chris, dear, go to bed," he said firmly. "If I don't find you there in half an hour, I shall put you there myself."
"Oh no!" she broke in. "Please don't come up. I shall get on better alone. And I have to say goodnight to Noel first."
"I am sorry, dear," he said, "but you can't. Noel is in disgrace, and I would rather you did not see him to-night."
"In disgrace! Trevor—why?"
He put his arm deliberately round her again, and led her to the stairs.
"Tell me why," she said.
"I will tell you tomorrow," he repeated.
But she would not be satisfied. She turned upon the first stair, confronting him. "Tell me now, please, Trevor."
He raised his brows at her insistence.
"Yes," she said in answer, "but I want to know. You don't—you can't—blame him for—for—" she faltered and bit her lip desperately—"you know what," she ended under her breath.
"I do blame him," he answered quietly. "I forbade him strictly to attempt to drive without someone of experience beside him."
"Oh!" A sharp note of misgiving sounded in Chris's voice. "You said that to me too!" she said.
He looked at her very gravely. "I did."
"Then—then"—she stretched a hand to the bannisters—"you are angry with me too?"
"No, I am not angry with you," he said, and she was conscious of a subtle softening in his tone. "I am never angry with you, Chris," he said emphatically.
"And yet you are angry with Noel," she said.
"That is different."
"How—different?"
He took her hand into his. "Do you know he nearly killed you?"
She started a little. "Me?"
He nodded grimly. "Yes. If it had been only himself, it wouldn't have mattered. But you—you!"
His arms went out to her suddenly; he caught her to him, held her passionately close for a moment, then lifted her and began to carry her upstairs.
She lay against his breast in quivering silence. It seemed that Cinders did not matter either so long as she was safe; and though she knew beyond all question that he was not angry with her, she was none the less afraid.
CHAPTER V
THE LOOKER-ON
"I think that it should be remembered that he is young," said Bertrand, "also that he has been punished enough severely already."
He leaned back in an easy-chair with a cigarette which he had suffered to go out between his fingers, and watched Mordaunt pacing up and down.
Mordaunt made no pretence of smoking. He walked to and fro with his hands behind him, his brows drawn in thought, his mouth very grim.
"My good fellow, he will have forgotten all that by to-morrow," he said, with a faint, hard smile. "I know these Wyndhams."
"I also," said Bertrand quietly.
Mordaunt glanced at him. "Well?"
The Frenchman hesitated momentarily. "I think," he said, "that you will find them more easy to lead than to drive."
Mordaunt's frown deepened. "They are all so hopelessly lawless, so utterly unprincipled. As for lying, this boy at least thinks nothing of it."
"Ah, that is detestable, that!" Bertrand said. "But he would not lie to you unless you made him afraid, hein?"
"He lies whenever it suits his purpose," Mordaunt said. "He would have lied about the speed of the motor if I would have listened to him. But it is his disobedience I am dealing with now. If I don't give that boy the sound thrashing he deserves for defying my orders, he will never obey me again."
Bertrand's eyes, very bright and vigilant, opened a little. "But
Christine!" he said.
"Yes, I know." Mordaunt came to a sudden halt. "Chris also must learn that when I say a thing I mean it," he said.
"Without doubt," the Frenchman conceded gravely. "But that is not all that you want. And surely it would be better to be a little lenient to her brother than to alienate her confidence from yourself."
He spoke impressively, so impressively that Mordaunt turned and looked at him with close attention. Several seconds passed before, very quietly, he spoke.
"What makes you say this to me, Bertrand?"
"Because you are my friend," Bertrand answered.
"And you think my wife is afraid of me?"
Bertrand's eyes met his with the utmost directness. "I think that she might very easily become afraid."
Mordaunt looked at him for several seconds longer, then deliberately pulled up a chair, and sat facing him.
"In Heaven's name, Bertrand, why?" he said.
Bertrand made a quick gesture, almost as if he would have checked the question, but when it was uttered he sat in silence.
"You can't tell me?" Mordaunt said at last.
He shrugged his shoulders. "If you desire it, I will tell you what I think."
"Tell me, then."
A faint flush rose in Bertrand's face. He contemplated the end of his cigarette as if he were studying something of interest. "I think, monsieur," he said at last, "that if you asked more of her, you would obtain more. She is afraid of you because she does not know you. You regard her as a child. You are never on a level with her. You are not enough her friend. Therefore you do not understand her. Therefore she does not know you. Therefore she is—afraid."
His eyes darted up to Mordaunt's grave face for an instant, and returned to the cigarette.
There followed a silence of some duration. At last very quietly Mordaunt rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began to search for matches.
Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own. They stood close together while the flame kindled between them. After a moment their eyes met through a cloud of smoke. Bertrand's held a tinge of anxiety.
"I have displeased you, no?" he asked abruptly.
Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder. "On the contrary, I am grateful to you. I believe there is something in what you say. I never gave you credit for so much perception."
Bertrand's face cleared. He began to smile—the smile of the rider who has just cleared a difficult obstacle.
"You have a proverb in England," he said, "concerning those who watch the game, that they see more than those who play. Shall we say that it is thus with me? You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you both better than you know each other."
"I believe you do," Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself. "Well, I suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake. I wonder if he has gone to bed." He glanced at the clock. "It's time you went, anyhow. You are looking fagged to death. Go and sleep as long as you can."
He gripped the Frenchman's hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny which Bertrand refused to meet. He never encouraged any reference to his health.
"I am all right," he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings. He was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.
Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work which he had taken out of his secretary's hands earlier in the day. It was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time deep in thought.
It was probably true, what Bertrand had said. Tenderly as he loved his young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence. There was no friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so she feared him. His love was to her a consuming flame from which she shrank. Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it. She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how he would. She was his and yet not his. She eluded him, even when he held her in his arms.
His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all pointing to the same thing. And yet he knew that he had been patient with her. He had held himself in check perpetually. And here again Bertrand's words recurred to him. If he had asked more, might he not have obtained more? Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not let her feel the compulsion of his love? Was it perchance his very restraint that frightened her? Had he indeed asked too little?
Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night. He had kindled some answering flame within her then. She had not attempted to withhold herself. The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting the blood leaping in his veins anew. She had been his that night, and his throughout the brief fortnight that followed. They had been very intent upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon. How was it she had slipped away from him since? Was it the advent of that tempestuous youngster that had caused the change? Undoubtedly Chris was less a Wyndham when alone with him. Or was there some other cause, arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness of the spirit, of which he had had no warning? Her aunt's declaration that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him. Was it so with her? Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?
Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day: "Don't you often think me silly and fickle? You'll find it more and more, the more you see of me. You'll be horribly disappointed in me some day."
He rose abruptly. No, that day had not dawned yet. If she had slipped away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame. He had not won the friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not hold her without it. As Bertrand had said, he had not been enough her friend. Even now she was probably crying herself ill in solitude over the loss of Cinders.
The thought quickened him to action. He turned out the light, and went swiftly from the room.
Upstairs, outside her door, he stopped to listen, but he heard no sound. She had cried herself to sleep, then, and he had not been there to comfort her. His heart smote him. Had she deemed him unsympathetic? She had seemed to wish to be alone, and for that reason he had left her as soon as he had satisfied himself that she had all she needed in a physical sense. She had not wanted him. She had shrunk from his touch. She had probably seen him go with relief. But—he asked himself the question with sudden misgiving—would it have been better if he had ignored her evident desire and stayed? He had feared exhaustion for her and had avoided any word or action that might have led to a renewal of her grief. Had he seemed to think too lightly of her sorrow? Had she been repelled by his very forbearance?
He passed on softly to his own room. The door that led from this into hers was ajar. He pushed it a little wider, and looked in.
It was lighted only by the moon, which threw a flood of radiance through the wide-flung windows. Every object in the room stood out in strong relief. Standing motionless in the doorway, Trevor Mordaunt sought and found his wife.
She was lying with her face to the moonlight, her hair streaming loose, the bedclothes pushed off her shoulders.
And there beside her, curled up in a big easy-chair, his black head lodged against her pillow, one hand clasped close in hers, lay Noel. Both had been crying, both were asleep.
For many seconds Mordaunt stood upon the threshold, gravely watching them, but he made no movement to draw nearer. At last noiselessly he withdrew, and closed the door.
The grimness had all gone from his face. He even smiled a little as he resigned himself to spending the night in his own room. The idea of disturbing the brother and sister never crossed his mind. It was enough for him that Chris had found comfort.
CHAPTER VI
A BARGAIN
"Luck!" said Rupert gloomily. "There never is any where I am concerned."
This in response to a question from his brother-in-law as to the general progress of his affairs. He sat in Mordaunt's writing-room, with one of Mordaunt's cigars between his lips, and a decidedly sullen expression on his good-looking face.
"I'm sick of everything," he declared. "I'm going to chuck the Army. It's never done anything for me. There's no chance of active service, and I loathe garrison work."
"The only question being, what else are you fit for?" said Mordaunt.
Rupert threw him a quick look. "I'll be your bailiff, if you like," he said. "I could do that."
Mordaunt raised his brows at the suggestion. "That is an idea that never occurred to me," he remarked.
"Why not? You want a bailiff, don't you?"
"A reliable one," said Mordaunt.
Rupert jumped in his chair as if he had been stung. "What the devil do you mean?"
"I mean"—Mordaunt regarded him steadily—"that I shouldn't care to trust my affairs to a man who can't look after his own."
Rupert's eyes flashed. "I am not to be trusted, then?"
Mordaunt continued to regard him, quite unmoved.
"You had better ask yourself that question, my dear fellow," he said.
"You are better qualified to answer it than I am."
Rupert relaxed again, dropping back listlessly. "I suppose you are right. I certainly don't make a great success of things. I believe I should get on better with you than with anyone else. But if you feel like that about it, there is no more to be said."
"You really want to be taken seriously, do you?" Mordaunt said.
"Of course I do!" Rupert turned towards him again with the lightning change of mood characteristic of him. "You must forgive me for being a bit touchy, old chap. It's this infernal thundery weather. May I have another drink?" He helped himself without waiting for permission. "Of course I want to be taken seriously. It's a billet that would suit me down to the ground. I know the place, every inch of it, and, as you know, I'm fond of it. I would look after your interests as though they were my own."
Mordaunt smiled. "But do you look after your own?"
Rupert clinked some ice into his tumbler, and thoughtfully watched it float.
"You've been so jolly decent to me," he said at length, "that I haven't the face to bother you with my affairs again."
"I suppose that means you are in difficulties," his brother-in-law remarked.
He nodded without looking up. "I'm never out of 'em. It's not my fault.
It's my beastly bad luck."
"Of course," said Mordaunt dryly.
Rupert bobbed the ice against his glass and spilt some whisky-and-water in so doing. He looked decidedly uncomfortable.
"I can't help it," he said. "I was born in Queer Street, and I've lived there all my life. You fellows who are simply rolling in wealth haven't the smallest notion what it means."
"What is the good of saying that?" Mordaunt sounded impatient for the first time. "You know as well as I do that if you had twenty thousand a year you would spend twice the amount."
Rupert glanced at him sideways. "Hullo!" he said softly. "Beginning to size us up, are you?"
"I'm beginning to think"—Mordaunt spoke with force—"that your sense of honour is as much a minus quantity as your wealth."
"Honour!" Rupert looked up in genuine astonishment.
"Yes, honour," Mordaunt repeated grimly. "Do you call it honourable to run up debts that you have no possibility of paying?"
Rupert turned crimson. "Look here! I'm not going to stay here to be insulted," he said hotly. "I haven't asked for your help, and I'm damned if I'd take it if you offered it—after that."
He was on his feet with the words, but Mordaunt remained seated. "You can do as you like," he said quietly. "If you choose to take offence, that is your affair. I helped you before because I knew you were hard up and I was sorry for you. But there is no occasion for you to be hard up now. And I am not sorry for you this time. I think you deserve to be kicked."
"You be damned!" said Rupert fiercely.
Mordaunt's brows went up. He looked full into the boy's heated face, and though he said no word Rupert turned slowly white under the look. In the dead silence that followed he stood as tense as though he expected a blow. Yet Mordaunt made no movement, spoke no word.
It was Rupert who broke the silence finally, broke it hurriedly, stammeringly, as though it had become unbearable. "All right, old chap. I didn't mean quite that. But you—you shouldn't badger me. I'm not used to it."
"Sit down," Mordaunt said.
He obeyed awkwardly, and to cover his discomfiture took up his glass to drink. But before it reached his lips Mordaunt spoke again.
"Rupert!"
He started a little, and again the liquid splashed over.
"Put that down!" Mordaunt said.
Again dumbly he obeyed.
Mordaunt leaned forward and drew the glass out of his reach. "It has never been my intention to badger you," he said. "But I reserve to myself the privilege of telling you the truth. That is the fourth drink I have seen you mix this afternoon."
"I'm perfectly sober," Rupert asserted quickly.
"Yes, I know. But you are not as cool as you might be." Very keenly Mordaunt's eyes surveyed him, but they were not without a hint of kindness notwithstanding. "I mustn't call you a young fool, I suppose," he said, "but really you are not overwise. Now, what about these affairs of yours? Shall we go into them now or after tea?"
Rupert shrugged his shoulders sullenly. "I don't know that I care to go into them at all."
The kindliness went out of Mordaunt's eyes and a certain steeliness took its place. "As you like," he said. "Only let it be clearly understood that I will have no borrowing from Chris. I have forbidden her to lend money to any one of you. If you want it, you must come direct to me."
Rupert shifted his position, and looked out of the window. Down in the garden Chris was dispensing tea to three of his brother-subalterns, assisted by Noel. Bertrand was seated by her side, alert and watchful, ready at a moment's notice to come to her aid. It was his customary attitude, and it had been so more than ever since the death of Cinders. There was a protecting brotherliness about him that Chris found infinitely comforting: He understood her so perfectly.
She had not wanted to emerge from her seclusion to entertain her brother's friends on that sunny Sunday afternoon, but he had gently persuaded her. A change had come over Chris during the past four days. The violence of her grief had spent itself on the night that she and Noel had mingled their tears over the loss of their favourite, and she had not alluded to it since. She accepted her husband's sympathy with gratitude, but she shrank so visibly from the smallest allusion to her trouble that he found no opportunity for expressing it. He would not intrude it upon her. It was not his way, and she made him aware that for this also she was grateful.
But it was plainly from Bertrand that she drew her chief comfort. His very presence seemed to soothe her. He was just the friend she needed to help her through her dark hour.
That she fretted secretly Mordaunt could not doubt, but she was so zealous to hide all traces of it from him that he never detected them. He only missed her gay wilfulness and the sunshine of her smile. She responded to his tenderness even more readily than usual, but she did not open her heart to him. There seemed to be a barrier intervening that she could not bring herself to pass.
In his own mind he set this fact down to a certain feminine unreasonableness, imagining that she could not forget his share in the tragedy that had affected her so deeply. He trusted to time to soften the painful impression, and meanwhile, with his habitual patience, he set himself to wait till the physical strain had passed and the very sweetness of her nature should bring her back to him. He knew that all Bertrand's influence would be exercised in this direction, and his faith in his young secretary's discretion was considerable. Their brief conversation on the night of the disaster had rooted it more firmly than ever. Bertrand was so essentially a man of honour that he trusted him in all things as he trusted himself. Their code was the same, and their friendship of the kind that endures for life. If there were one thing on earth before all others upon which Trevor Mordaunt would have staked his all, it was this Frenchman's loyalty to himself. He was as staunch as Chris's brothers were unstable. He believed him to be utterly incapable of so much as an underhand impulse. And he was content that Chris should have for friend this man who was so close a friend of his own, upon whose nobility of character he had come to rely as a power for good that could not fail to raise her ideals and deepen in her that sense of honour which was still scarcely more than an undeveloped instinct in her soul.
His eyes followed Rupert's to the open window. The sound of chaffing voices rose clearly on the summer air, mingled with the chink of tea-cups.
"Shall we go?" Mordaunt said.
Rupert looked round with a laugh. "Did you see that ass Murphy stand on his head to drink his tea? It's his pet accomplishment. Yes, all right; let's go."
He got up, glanced at the whisky-and-soda on the table, then impulsively linked his arm in that of his brother-in-law, all his sullenness gone like a storm-cloud.
"You're quite right, old fellow. I have had as much of that stuff as is good for me. Forgive me for being such a bear. I didn't mean it."
Mordaunt paused. He had never dealt with anyone quite so bewilderingly changeable before. "I wish I knew how to treat you," he said, after a moment.
"Oh, pitch into me! It's the only way." Rupert's smile flashed suddenly upon him. "I've been an ungrateful brute, and I'm ashamed of myself. Seriously, Trevor, I'm sorry. I sometimes think to myself it's downright disgusting the way we all sponge on you. It's deuced good of you to put up with it."
Mordaunt still regarded him with close attention. But there was no doubt in his mind as to the boy's sincerity: he only wondered how long this contrite mood would last.
"I am always willing to help you to the best of my ability," he said. "But I think you might play the game. I can't keep pouring water into a sieve."
"It's not to be expected," Rupert agreed. "And I hate asking you for more money. I'm an absolute cur to do it. But—" he broke off, and pulled his hand free—"for goodness' sake, man, if you can—just this once—"