“But I cannot—­I cannot,” Bertrand said restlessly.  “You are already much too good to me.  You overwhelm me with kindness, and I—­I make no return at all.  No, listen to me—­”

“I’m not going to listen to you,” Mordaunt said.  “You are talking nonsense, my friend, arrant drivel—­nothing less.  Chris will tell you the same.”

“Of course,” said Chris.  “Besides, there are crowds of things you can do for me.  No, he shan’t be overworked, I promise you, Trevor.  But I’m going to try a new cure.  Just for this afternoon he is going to lie in the hammock and smoke cigarettes.  But after to-day”—­she nodded gaily at the perturbed Frenchman—­“after to-day, Bertie, nous verrons!”

He smiled in spite of himself, but he continued to look dissatisfied till Mordaunt carelessly turned the conversation.

“Where’s that young beggar Noel?”

“Fishing in the Home Meadow,” said Chris.

“Quite sure?”

“I think so,” she said.  “Why?”

“Because he has taken one of my guns, and I believe he is potting rabbits.”

Chris sat up with consternation in her eyes.  “Trevor!  I believe he is too!  I heard someone shooting half an hour ago.  And he has got Cinders with him!  I know he will go and shoot him by mistake!”

“Or himself,” said Mordaunt grimly.

“Oh, he won’t do that,” said Chris with confidence.  “Nothing ever happens to Noel.”

“Something will happen to him before long if he doesn’t behave himself,” observed Mordaunt.  “My patience began to wear thin last night when I caught him asleep with a smouldering pipe on his pillow.”

“Oh, but he always does what he likes in the holidays,” pleaded Chris.

“Does he?” Mordaunt’s voice was uncompromising.

She slipped a quick hand into his.  “Trevor, you wouldn’t spoil his fun?”

He looked down at her, faintly smiling.  “My dear Chris, it depends upon the fun.  I’m not going to have the place burnt down for his amusement.”

“Oh no,” she said.  “But you won’t be strict with him, will you?  He will only do things on the sly if you are.”

Mordaunt frowned abruptly.  “If I catch him doing anything underhand—­”

She broke in sharply in evident distress.  “But we all do, Trevor!  I—­I’ve done it myself before now—­often with Mademoiselle Gautier, and then with Aunt Philippa.  One has to, you know.  At least—­at least—­” His grey eyes suddenly made her feel cold, and she stopped as impulsively as she had begun.

There was a moment’s silence, then quite gently he drew his hand away.  “I think I will go and see what mischief the boy is up to.”

She jumped up.  “I’ll come too.”

He paused, and for a single instant his eyes met Bertrand’s.  At once the Frenchman spoke.

“But, Christine, have you not forgotten your roses?  It is growing late, is it not?  And you will be out this afternoon.  Permit me to assist you with them.”