“He lies whenever it suits his purpose,” Mordaunt said.  “He would have lied about the speed of the motor if I would have listened to him.  But it is his disobedience I am dealing with now.  If I don’t give that boy the sound thrashing he deserves for defying my orders, he will never obey me again.”

Bertrand’s eyes, very bright and vigilant, opened a little.  “But Christine!” he said.

“Yes, I know.”  Mordaunt came to a sudden halt.  “Chris also must learn that when I say a thing I mean it,” he said.

“Without doubt,” the Frenchman conceded gravely.  “But that is not all that you want.  And surely it would be better to be a little lenient to her brother than to alienate her confidence from yourself.”

He spoke impressively, so impressively that Mordaunt turned and looked at him with close attention.  Several seconds passed before, very quietly, he spoke.

“What makes you say this to me, Bertrand?”

“Because you are my friend,” Bertrand answered.

“And you think my wife is afraid of me?”

Bertrand’s eyes met his with the utmost directness.  “I think that she might very easily become afraid.”

Mordaunt looked at him for several seconds longer, then deliberately pulled up a chair, and sat facing him.

“In Heaven’s name, Bertrand, why?” he said.

Bertrand made a quick gesture, almost as if he would have checked the question, but when it was uttered he sat in silence.

“You can’t tell me?” Mordaunt said at last.

He shrugged his shoulders.  “If you desire it, I will tell you what I think.”

“Tell me, then.”

A faint flush rose in Bertrand’s face.  He contemplated the end of his cigarette as if he were studying something of interest.  “I think, monsieur,” he said at last, “that if you asked more of her, you would obtain more.  She is afraid of you because she does not know you.  You regard her as a child.  You are never on a level with her.  You are not enough her friend.  Therefore you do not understand her.  Therefore she does not know you.  Therefore she is—­afraid.”

His eyes darted up to Mordaunt’s grave face for an instant, and returned to the cigarette.

There followed a silence of some duration.  At last very quietly Mordaunt rose, went to the mantelpiece, helped himself to a cigarette, and began to search for matches.

Bertrand sprang up to proffer one of his own.  They stood close together while the flame kindled between them.  After a moment their eyes met through a cloud of smoke.  Bertrand’s held a tinge of anxiety.

“I have displeased you, no?” he asked abruptly.

Mordaunt leaned a friendly hand upon his shoulder.  “On the contrary, I am grateful to you.  I believe there is something in what you say.  I never gave you credit for so much perception.”

Bertrand’s face cleared.  He began to smile—­the smile of the rider who has just cleared a difficult obstacle.