She faced him unshrinking, undismayed.  The Chris of a few hours before would have drawn back in open fear from the piercing scrutiny of those grey eyes, but this Chris was different.  This Chris was a woman with pale lips that smiled a baffling smile and eyes that barred the way to her soul, a woman who had found in her womanhood a weapon of defence that no man could thrust aside.

“I haven’t been doing anything,” she said indifferently, “except run round after Aunt Philippa—­oh yes, and write up to town for some things I wanted.  Aunt Philippa is really going to leave us to-day week.  I can’t think what we shall do without her, can you?  Now tell me about your doings.”

She lifted her face suddenly for his kiss, ignoring the fact that he was still holding her as if for inquisition.

He drew her sharply into his arms and held her fast.  “You are very cold, sweetheart,” he said.

She flushed a little at his action, though the lips he kissed were like ice.  “I am tired,” she said.

She expected him to set her free, but he did not.  He held her closer still.  Not till afterwards did she realize that it was the first time he had ever held her thus and she had not quivered like a frightened bird against his breast.  She was scarcely thinking of him now.  She was as one who stands before a scorching fire too rapt in reverie to feel the heat.

Yet after a little he did succeed in infusing a certain degree of warmth into her.  Her arms went round his neck, though hardly of her own volition, and her lips returned his kiss.  But there was no spirit in her.  She leaned against him as if spent.

“Are you quite well, dear?” he asked her tenderly.

“Oh, quite!  I am always well.”  She uttered a little tremulous laugh and raised her head from his shoulder.  “Trevor,” she said, “I am afraid you will think me very extravagant, but, do you know, I haven’t any money to go on with.  I had a notice from the bank to-day to say my account was overdrawn.”

Again it was not the Chris he knew who uttered the words.  It was a woman of the world to whom his passing displeasure had become a matter almost of indifference.

“Chris,” he said abruptly, “what is the matter with you, child?  Are you bewitched?”

That roused her.  She suddenly realized that she was on dangerous ground, that to blind him she must recall the child who had vanished so inexplicably.  And so for the first time she deliberately set herself to deceive this man who till now had ever impelled her to a certain measure of honesty.  She did it with a sick heart—­but she did it.

She laid her hands on the front of his coat, grasping it nervously, lifting pleading eyes to his.

“No, I’m not bewitched.  I’m only pretending not to be frightened.  Trevor, don’t be vexed.  I’m very sorry about it.  Really I couldn’t help it.”

“It’s all right, dear,” he said at once, and his hands closed instantly and reassuringly upon hers.  He smiled into her eyes.  “It’s very naughty, of course, but I’m glad you have told me.  How much do you want?”