men, flushed, eager, charming. "I'm so glad, Bertie," she
said impulsively. "You may think yourself very lucky. Mr. Mordaunt is
quite the nicest man in the world."

Bertrand bowed low. "I believe it," he said simply.

"Then we shall see quite a lot of each other," went on Chris. "That will
be great fun--just like old times. Oh, must I really go? I don't want to
at all, and nothing will make me sorry that I came." She threw a gay
smile at her _fiance_, and withdrew her hand to give it to the friend of
her childhood. "_Au revoir, preux chevalier_! You will come to my
birthday party? Promise!" Then, as he still shook his head: "Trevor, if
you don't bring him, I shall come all by myself and fetch him."

"No, you mustn't do that," Mordaunt answered with decision.

"Then will you bring him?"

"I will do my best," he promised gravely.

"Will you really? Oh, thank you, Trevor. I shall expect you then, Bertie.
Good-bye!"

Her hand lay for a couple of seconds in his, and he bent low over it, but
he did not speak in answer.

She went out of the room with the silent Englishman. He heard her
laughing as they went downstairs. He heard her gay young voice a while
longer in the hall below. Then came the throb of a motor and the closing
of the street door. She was gone.

He stood quite motionless, listening to the taxi as it whirred away. And
even after he ceased to hear it he did not move. He was gazing straight
before him, and his eyes were the eyes of a man in a dream. They saw
naught.

Stiffly at last he moved, and something like a shudder went through him.
He crossed the room heavily, with the gait of one stricken suddenly old.
He sat down again at the writing-table, and took up the pen that he had
dropped--how long ago!

He even wrote a few words slowly, laboriously, still with that fixed look
in his eyes. Then quite suddenly he was assailed by a violent tremor. He
pushed back his chair with a sharp exclamation, half-rose, then as
swiftly flung himself forward and lay across the table, face downwards,
gasping horribly, almost choking. His hands were clenched, and hammered
upon the papers littered there. The pen rolled unheeded over the polished
wood and fell upon the floor.

Seconds passed into minutes. Gradually the bony fists ceased their
convulsive tattoo. The laboured breathing grew less agonized. The man's
rigid pose relaxed. But still he lay with his arms outspread and his head
bowed between them, a silent ima