Her eyes blazed at the insult.  For the first time in her life Chris was so possessed by fury as to be actually sublime.  She drew herself to her full height.  She met his mockery fearlessly, and, with a royal disregard of consequences, she trod it underfoot.

“Captain Rodolphe, be good enough to let me pass!”

He stood aside instantly.  He was even momentarily abashed.  He had not expected his game to end thus.  She had seemed such an easy prey, this English girl.  Her discomfiture had been almost too obvious.  He certainly had not deemed her capable of this display of spirit.

Yet in a moment, even as, erect and disdainful, she passed him by, he was smiling again, a secret, subtle smile which she felt rather than saw.  Emerging into the hot sunshine that beat upon the crowded lawn, she knew herself to be cold from head to foot.

CHAPTER VIII

THE THIN END

“Good-bye!” said Mrs. Pouncefort.  “So glad you came.  I hope you haven’t been bored.”

“Bored to extinction,” murmured Noel.  “Hi, Trevor!  Let me drive, like a good chap.  Do!”

“Certainly not,” said Mordaunt, with decision.  “You are going to sit behind.  We shall meet the wind now, and Chris must come in front; it is more sheltered.”

Chris submitted to this arrangement in silence.  She was looking very tired.  Her husband regarded her keenly as he tucked her in, but he said nothing.

“What do you think of Mrs. Pouncefort’s latest?” grinned Noel, as they spun along the high-road.  “I never met such a facetious brute in my life.  How did you like him, Bertrand?”

“Who?” said Bertrand somewhat curtly.

“What did they call him—­Rodolphe, wasn’t it?  That French chap with the beastly little beard.”

“I did not like him,” said Bertrand, with precision.

“That’s all right,” said Noel approvingly.  “But he’s reigning favourite with Mrs. Pouncefort, anyone can see with half an eye.  Rum, isn’t it?  And little Pouncefort puts up with it like a lamb.  But they say he’s just as bad.  Daresay he is, though he’s quite a decent little beggar to talk to.  I can’t stand Mrs. Pouncefort at any price, while as for that Frenchman”—­he made a hideous grimace—­“I’m glad you are not all alike, Bertrand!”

Bertrand responded to the compliment without elation.  He seemed preoccupied, and Noel, finding him uninteresting, turned his cheerful attention elsewhere.

Letters awaited them upon their return.  Chris took up hers with scarcely a glance, and went up to her room.

Her husband, following a little later, found her sitting on a couch by the window, perusing them.  She glanced up at his entrance.

“I have a letter from Aunt Philippa.  She thinks we must be quite settled by this time, and she wants to spend a day or two here next week, before she goes to Scotland.”