“I am not hurt,” the Frenchman answered; but his words sounded as if speech were an effort to him, almost as if he spoke them through clenched teeth.

Chris straightened herself swiftly.  “Yes, let us go in,” she said.

She leaned upon Bertrand no longer, but she still held his arm.  As they entered the drawing-room alone together, she turned and looked at him.

“Ah!  I knew you were hurt,” she said quickly.  “Sit down, Bertie.  Here is a chair.”

He sank down blindly, his face like death; he had begun to gasp for breath.  His hand groped desperately towards an inner pocket, but fell powerless before reaching it.

“Let me!” whispered Chris.

She bent over him, and slipped her own trembling hand inside his coat.  Her fingers touched something hard, and she drew out a small bottle.

“Is it this?” she said.

His lips moved in the affirmative.  She removed the stopper and shook out some capsules.

“Deux!” whispered Bertrand.

She put them into his mouth and waited.  Great drops had started on his forehead, and now began to roll slowly down his drawn face.  She took his handkerchief after a little to wipe them away, but almost immediately he reached up with a quivering smile and took it from her.

“I am better,” he said, and though his voice was husky he had it under control.  “You will pardon me for giving you this trouble.  It was only—­a passing weakness.”

He mopped his forehead, and leaned slowly forward, moving with caution.

“But you are ill!  You are in pain!” Chris exclaimed.

“No,” he said.  “No, I have no pain.  I am better.  I am quite well.”

Again he looked up at her, smiling.  “But how I have alarmed you!” he said regretfully.  “And your arm, petite?  It is not burnt—­not at all?”

He took her hand gently, and put back the tattered sleeve to satisfy himself on this point.

Chris said nothing.  Her lips had begun to tremble.  But she winced a little when he touched a place inside her arm where the flame had scorched her.

He glanced up sharply.  “Ah! that hurts you, that?”

“No,” she said, “no.  It is nothing.”  And then, with sudden passion:  “Bertie, what does a little scorch like that matter when you—­when you—­” She broke off, fighting with herself, and pointed a shaking finger at his wrist.

It had been blistered by the flame, and his shirt-cuff was charred; but the injury was slight, remarkably so in consideration of the utter recklessness he had displayed.

He snapped his fingers with easy indifference.  “Ah, bah!  It is a bagatelle, that.  In one week it will be gone.  And now—­why, cherie—­”

He stopped abruptly.  She had dropped upon her knees beside him, her hands upon his shoulders, her face, tragic in its pain, upturned to his.

“Bertie, why do you try to hide things from me?  Do you think I am quite blind?  You are ill.  I know you are ill.  What is it, dear?  Won’t you tell me?”