He looked down at the little friendly hand that lay upon his arm, but he did not offer to touch it.  His eyes remained downcast as he spoke.  “I am more happy than I ever expected to be, Christine.”

“You like your work?” she questioned.  “Trevor is kind to you?”

“He is—­much too kind,” the Frenchman answered, with feeling.

“But still you are unhappy?” she said.

“It is—­my own fault,” he told her, still not looking at her.

She rubbed his sleeve sympathetically.  “Bertie, don’t you think—­if you tried very hard—­you might manage to forget all that old trouble?”

There was a note of pleading in her voice, and he made a quick gesture as he heard it, as if in some way it pierced him.

She went on speaking, as he made no attempt to do so.  “You know, Bertie, you really are quite young still, and there are such a lot of nice things left.  It’s such a pity to keep on grieving.  Don’t you think so?  It seems rather a waste of time.  And I do—­so—­want you to be happy.”

At the quiver in her voice he glanced up sharply, but he instantly lowered his eyes again.  And still he said no word.  He only drew his brows together and bit his cigarette to a pulp.

Her hand came softly down his arm and lay upon his.

“Bertie,” she said, in a whisper, “you’re not—­vexed?”

His hand clenched at her touch, but on the instant he looked up at her with a smile.  “Vexed!” he said.  “With you!  A thousand times—­no!”

She smiled back, reassured.  “Then will you—­please—­try to forget what you have lost?  I know it won’t be easy, but will you try?  It’s the only possible way to be happy.  And if you are not happy—­I shan’t be either.”

He took her hand at last with perfect steadiness into his own.  “You know not what I have lost,” he said.  “But—­if I try to forget—­that will content you?”

She nodded.  “Yes, Bertie.”

He looked at her intently for a moment, then, “Eh Bien!” he said briskly.  “I will try.”

“Bon garcon!” 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?”