His hand was on her hair, the beautiful, burnished hair that Mademoiselle Gautier had deemed one of her most dangerous possessions.  He did not try to see her face, and perhaps for that very reason Chris leaned against him with complete confidence.

“So you don’t want to be married?” he said, after a moment.

“No, I don’t!” she said, with vehemence.  “I think marriage is dreadful—­dreadful, when you come to look at it close.”  She moved her head under his hand; for an instant her face was raised.  “Trevor, you don’t mind my saying it, do you?”

“I want you to say exactly what is in your mind,” he made grave reply.

“I knew you would.”  She nestled down again, and pulled his hand over her shoulder, holding it against her cheek.  “I know I’m very unorthodox,” she said.  “Perhaps I’m wicked as well.  I can’t help it.  I think marriage—­except for good people like Hilda—­is a mistake.  It’s so terribly cold-blooded and—­and irrevocable.”

She spoke the last words almost in a whisper.  She was holding his hand very tightly.

He sat very still, and she wondered if he were shocked by her views, but she could not bring herself to ascertain.  She went on quickly, with a touch of recklessness—­

“It’s only the good people like Hilda who can be quite sure they will never change their minds.  In fact, I’m beginning to think that it’s only the good people who never do.  Trevor, what should you do if—­if you were married to me, and then you—­changed your mind?”

“I can’t imagine the impossible, Chris,” he said.

She moved restlessly.  “Would it be quite impossible?”

“Quite.”

“Even if you found out that I was—­quite worthless?”

“That also is impossible,” he said gravely.

She was silent for a space, then, “And what if I—­changed mine?” she said, her voice very low.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

She shrank at the question, quietly though it was uttered.

His hand closed very steadily upon hers.  “Don’t be afraid to tell me,” he said.  “I want the truth, you know, whatever it is.”

“I know,” she said, and suddenly she began to sob drearily, hopelessly, with her head against his knee.

He bent lower over her; he lifted her till he held her in his arms, pressed close against his heart.

“Yes, hold me!” she whispered, through her tears.  “Hold me tight, Trevor!  Don’t let me go!  I don’t feel so—­so frightened when you are holding me.”

“Tell me what has frightened you,” he said.

“I can’t,” she whispered back.  “I’m just—­foolish, that’s all.  And, Trevor, I can’t—­I can’t—­be married as Hilda was to-day.  I can’t face it—­all the people and the grandeur and the flowers.  You won’t make me, Trevor?”

“My darling, no!” he said.

“It frightened me so,” she said forlornly.  “It seemed like being caught in a trap.  One felt as if the guests and the flowers were meant to hide it all, but they didn’t—­they made it worse.  I don’t think Hilda felt like that, but then Hilda is so good, she wouldn’t.  Oh, Trevor dear, I wish—­I wish we could go to Kellerton and live there without being married at all.”