He spread out his hands.  “I knew not if you would wish to see me.”

“Don’t you know me better than that?” she said.  He did not answer her.  Evidently she did not expect an answer, for she went on almost at once.  “Bertie, why did you let Trevor think you had robbed him?”

He made a sharp gesture of protest, but remained silent.

She laid her hand on his arm.  “Come and sit down, Bertie!  And please answer me, because I want to know.”

He went with her to the rustic seat against the tree-trunk.  He was gripping his self-control with all his strength.

“Mr. Mordaunt must think what he will,” he said at length, with an effort.  “He can never judge me too severely.”

“Why do you say that?” Chris asked the question quickly, nervously, as if she had to ask it, yet dreaded the answer.

“I think you know, Christine,” he answered, his voice very low.

She shrank a little.  “But that money, Bertie?  You knew nothing of that?”

He was silent for a moment; then, “We will not speak of that,” he said firmly.  “I could not stay here in any case, so—­it makes no difference.”

“No difference that he should think you a thief!” exclaimed Chris.

He turned his eyes downwards, staring heavily at the ground between his feet.  “I ask myself,” he said, “if I am any better than a thief.”

“Bertie!” There was quick distress in her voice this time.  “But you have done nothing wrong,” she declared vehemently, “nothing whatever!”

He shook his head in silence, not looking at her.

“And you are ill,” she went on, passing the matter by as if not trusting herself.  “What will you do?  Where will you go?”

He sat up slowly and faced her.  “I go to London,” he said, “and I must start now.  Do not be anxious for me, Christine.  I have money enough.  Mr. Mordaunt offered me more this morning.  But I had no need of it, and I refused.”

He spoke quite steadily.  He was braced for the ordeal.  He would be strong until the need for strength was past.

But with Chris it was otherwise.  For her there was no prospect of relaxation.  She was but at the beginning of her trial, and her whole soul shrank from the contemplation of what lay before her.  The dear dreams of her childhood had flickered out like pictures on a screen.  And she had awakened to find herself in a prison-house from which all her life long she could never hope to escape.  Did some memory of the arms that had enfolded her so often and so tenderly come to her as she realized it?  If so, it was only to stab her afresh with the bitter irony of Fate that had lavished upon her the love of a man who had filled her life with all that woman’s heart could desire, and yet had failed to give her happiness.

And so, when Bertrand spoke of going, the newly awakened heart of her rose up in sudden, hot revolt.  His departure was inevitable, and she knew it, but her endurance was not equal to the strain.  She had deemed herself stronger than she was.