He spoke with the utmost tenderness; yet was she awed.  Her sudden rebellion died.  It was as though a quiet hand had been laid upon her heart, stilling her pain.  For one moment she looked with him across the long, dark furrows of mortal life into the great Beyond, and knew that he had spoken the truth.  Their love was worth the sacrifice.

“Oh, Bertie,” she said, in a whisper, “you are right, dear, you are right.”

His eyes flashed swift understanding into hers; yet for a moment his arms tightened about her, as if her submission made it harder for him to let her go.

She waited till they relaxed, and then she laid her hands upon his shoulders.  “Bertie,” she said very earnestly, “forget I ever asked it of you!”

He shook his head instantly, with a sudden, transforming smile that revealed in him the young, quick spirit that had caught hers so long ago.  “Oh no—­no!” he said.  “It will be to me the most precious memory of my life.  By it I shall always remember—­the so great generosity—­of your love.”

The smile went out of his face.  He leaned nearer to her.  She read irresolution in his eyes, and a quiver that was half of hope and half of apprehension went through her.  Was he going to fail, after all, in the moment of victory?  If so—­if so—­

But he restrained himself.  She saw him fight down the impulse that urged him inch by inch until he had it in subjection.  Under her watching eyes he conquered.  He showed her the Omnipotence of Love.

Quietly, with no exaggeration of reverence, he knelt before her.  He took her hands into his own, turned them upwards, pressed his lips to each palm, let them go.

The silence between them was like a sacrament.  She never knew how long it lasted.  It was a farewell more final than any words.

At last, “God keep you, my Christine!” he said.  “God bless you!”

He rose to his feet, but he did not look at her again.

She could not speak in answer; there was no need of speech.  He knew her heart as he knew his own.

And so in silence, with bent head, he left her.  And the sun went out of her sky.

CHAPTER VII

THE WAY OF THE WYNDHAMS

When Mordaunt returned from his ride, it was close upon the luncheon-hour.  He went straight upstairs to prepare for the meal.

Chris’s room was empty.  He wondered where she was, but Noel bounded in and enlightened him before he descended.

“She’s doing the pretty to Aunt Philippa,” he reported.  “Only three more hours now!  Hip, hip, hooray!”

His yell caused Mordaunt to fling the towel he was using at his head, a compliment which seemed to please him immensely.  He draped it round his neck and proceeded to deliver himself of that which he had come to say.

“Look here, Trevor, you’ve been bullying Chris, haven’t you?  You needn’t say you haven’t, because I know you have.”