Her own words came back to him, uttered with tears upon her wedding-day:  “Don’t you often think me silly and fickle?  You’ll find it more and more, the more you see of me.  You’ll be horribly disappointed in me some day.”

He rose abruptly.  No, that day had not dawned yet.  If she had slipped away from him, he, and he alone, was to blame.  He had not won the friendship which alone brings trust, and he knew now that he could not hold her without it.  As Bertrand had said, he had not been enough her friend.  Even now she was probably crying herself ill in solitude over the loss of Cinders.

The thought quickened him to action.  He turned out the light, and went swiftly from the room.

Upstairs, outside her door, he stopped to listen, but he heard no sound.  She had cried herself to sleep, then, and he had not been there to comfort her.  His heart smote him.  Had she deemed him unsympathetic?  She had seemed to wish to be alone, and for that reason he had left her as soon as he had satisfied himself that she had all she needed in a physical sense.  She had not wanted him.  She had shrunk from his touch.  She had probably seen him go with relief.  But—­he asked himself the question with sudden misgiving—­would it have been better if he had ignored her evident desire and stayed?  He had feared exhaustion for her and had avoided any word or action that might have led to a renewal of her grief.  Had he seemed to think too lightly of her sorrow?  Had she been repelled by his very forbearance?

He passed on softly to his own room.  The door that led from this into hers was ajar.  He pushed it a little wider, and looked in.

It was lighted only by the moon, which threw a flood of radiance through the wide-flung windows.  Every object in the room stood out in strong relief.  Standing motionless in the doorway, Trevor Mordaunt sought and found his wife.

She was lying with her face to the moonlight, her hair streaming loose, the bedclothes pushed off her shoulders.

And there beside her, curled up in a big easy-chair, his black head lodged against her pillow, one hand clasped close in hers, lay Noel.  Both had been crying, both were asleep.

For many seconds Mordaunt stood upon the threshold, gravely watching them, but he made no movement to draw nearer.  At last noiselessly he withdrew, and closed the door.

The grimness had all gone from his face.  He even smiled a little as he resigned himself to spending the night in his own room.  The idea of disturbing the brother and sister never crossed his mind.  It was enough for him that Chris had found comfort.

CHAPTER VI

A BARGAIN

“Luck!” said Rupert gloomily.  “There never is any where I am concerned.”

This in response to a question from his brother-in-law as to the general progress of his affairs.  He sat in Mordaunt’s writing-room, with one of Mordaunt’s cigars between his lips, and a decidedly sullen expression on his good-looking face.