is morning, but you did not see fit either to come to me or to
send any word of explanation to account for your absence. Therefore I
started late. Hence my late return."

Chris coloured. "I am sorry, Aunt Philippa. Noel wanted me. I am afraid I
forgot you were waiting."

"It seems to me," said Aunt Philippa, with cutting emphasis, "that you
are apt to forget every obligation when in Mr. Bertrand's society."

"Aunt Philippa!"

Furious indignation rang in Chris's voice. In a second--in less--it would
have been open war, but swift as an arrow Bertrand intervened.

"Ah! but pardon me," he said, in his soft voice. "I am not responsible
for Mrs. Mordaunt's negligence. She has been occupied with her affairs,
and I with mine. Had she been in my society"--he smiled with a flash of
the teeth--"she would not have forgotten her duties so easily. I am an
excellent monitor, madame. Acquit me, I beg, of being accessory to the
crime, and accept my sympathies the most sincere."

Aunt Philippa ignored them in icy silence, but he had accomplished his
end. The evil moment was averted. Whatever Chris might have to endure
later, at least she would be spared the added mortification of his
presence during the infliction. Airily he turned the subject. He could
overlook a snub more adroitly than Aunt Philippa could administer one.

They went into the house, and during the meal that followed Bertrand made
himself gracefully agreeable to both ladies. So delicate were his
attentions that Chris found herself more than once on the verge of
hysterical laughter.

But when he left them at length, with many apologies, to resume his
interrupted labours, her sense of humour ceased to vibrate. Never before
had she desired her husband's presence as she desired it then.

Her hope that Aunt Philippa might retire to her room to rest was a very
slender one, and destined almost from the outset to disappointment. Aunt
Philippa was on the war trail, and she would not rest until she had
tracked down her quarry.

She began at once to speak of her morning's visit to Mrs. Pouncefort,
whom she knew as a London hostess. Personally, she disapproved of her,
but she could not afford to pass her over, since her status in society
was by no means inconsiderable, being, in fact, almost capable of
rivalling her own.

"I should have remained to luncheon," she said, "but for the fact that
you were here quite unchaperoned. Had you accompanied me, as I had hoped
you wou