She was free at last, and sped up to her room.  The scribbled message that reached her fiance an hour later was only just legible, but it spoke more eloquently of the state of mind of the writer than she knew.

“DEAR TREVOR,—­

“Aunt Philippa says you are angry with me.  Please don’t be.  Really there is nothing to be angry about, though she thinks there is, and she is going to try and persuade you to send Bertie away.  Trevor, don’t listen to her, will you?  And, whatever you do, don’t tell her about Valpre.  I’m very bothered about it.  Do be as kind as you always are to

“Your loving
CHRIS.”

Mordaunt’s answering note reached her late in the afternoon just before she set forth for her ride in the Park with Jack.

“MY DEAR LITTLE CHRIS,—­

“My love to your Aunt Philippa, and I am just off to Paris for the inside of a week.  I shall be back for your cousin’s wedding.  Ask her to reserve her lecture till then.  Our friend Bertrand sends his amities.  I send nothing, for you have it all.

“Yours,
TREVOR.”

Chris kissed the note with a rush of tenderness—­greater than she had ever managed to bestow upon the writer.  That brief response to her appeal stirred her as she had never been stirred before.  It was sweet of him to trust her so.  She would never forget it, never, as long as she lived.

When Jack appeared to escort her, he noted her radiant face and shining eyes with approval.

“Why, you’re looking almost pretty for once,” he said.  “What has happened to bring it about?  It must be a recipe worth having.”

“Don’t be absurd!” she retorted, beaming upon him.  “Who wants to be pretty?”

“It’s better to be good certainly,” he said.  “I know you couldn’t be both.  But what’s the joke?  I think you might let me help laugh.”

“There isn’t a joke,” she said.  “And I’m not laughing.  I’ve had a letter from Trevor, that’s all.  And he’s going to Paris.”

“Oh-ho!” said Jack.

“Now you’re horrid!” she protested.  “I don’t want him to go in the least.”

“Of course not,” said Jack.  “I’ve observed how remarkably depressed you were by the news.”

“I shall be cross with you in a minute,” said Chris.

“Heaven forbid!” said Jack.  “When is he coming back?”

“In time for Hilda’s wedding.”

“And does he take the French secretary with him?”

“Oh, no, he can’t go to France.  I mean—­I mean—­”

Chris stopped in sudden confusion.

“I know what you mean,” said Jack.  “They would take too keen an interest in him over there.  Isn’t that it?”

“How did you know?” said Chris.

He laughed.  “The proverbial little bird!  I might add that a good many people know by this time.”

“Oh, Jack, do they?” Chris looked at him in consternation.  “He didn’t want anyone to know.”