He spoke perfectly calmly, with absolute conviction; but there was that in his face that startled her, something she had never seen before.

She put out a hesitating hand, and touched his sleeve.  “Bertie!”

Instantly he looked at her, saw the scared expression in her eyes, and, smiling, pressed her hand.

“Mais, Christine, these things—­what are they?  Ambition, success, honour—­loss, failure, shame; they seem so great in this little life of mortality.  But, after all, they are no more than the tools with which the good God shapes us to His destiny.  He uses them, and when His work is done He throws them aside.  We leave them behind us; we pass on to that which is greater.”  He paused a moment, and his eyes kindled as though he were on the verge of something further; then suddenly they went beyond her, and he relinquished her hand.  “Madame has returned,” he said.  “Let us go!”

Looking up, Chris saw Aunt Philippa upon the terrace above them.

The expression on her relative’s face was one of severe and undisguised disapproval, as her gaze rested upon the two in the garden.  Chris, as she moved to meet her, felt a sudden flame of indignation at her heart.  How dared Aunt Philippa look at them so?

“We have been waiting for you,” she said, speaking in some haste to conceal her resentment.  “Has anything happened?”

Aunt Philippa replied in the measured accents habitual to her.  “Nothing has happened.  I have been to Sandacre Court, at Mrs. Pouncefort’s invitation, to see the gardens.  I waited for you, Chris, for nearly an hour this morning, but you did not see fit either to come to me or to send any word of explanation to account for your absence.  Therefore I started late.  Hence my late return.”

Chris coloured.  “I am sorry, Aunt Philippa.  Noel wanted me.  I am afraid I forgot you were waiting.”

“It seems to me,” said Aunt Philippa, with cutting emphasis, “that you are apt to forget every obligation when in Mr. Bertrand’s society.”

“Aunt Philippa!”

Furious indignation rang in Chris’s voice.  In a second—­in less—­it would have been open war, but swift as an arrow Bertrand intervened.

“Ah! but pardon me,” he said, in his soft voice.  “I am not responsible for Mrs. Mordaunt’s negligence.  She has been occupied with her affairs, and I with mine.  Had she been in my society”—­he smiled with a flash of the teeth—­“she would not have forgotten her duties so easily.  I am an excellent monitor, madame.  Acquit me, I beg, of being accessory to the crime, and accept my sympathies the most sincere.”

Aunt Philippa ignored them in icy silence, but he had accomplished his end.  The evil moment was averted.  Whatever Chris might have to endure later, at least she would be spared the added mortification of his presence during the infliction.  Airily he turned the subject.  He could overlook a snub more adroitly than Aunt Philippa could administer one.