The two boys greeted him with much enthusiasm, but Chris suffered her own greeting to be of a less boisterous character.  Dear as the sight of him was to her, it could not ease this new pain at her heart, and somehow she found it impossible to muster even a show of gaiety any longer.

“Tired?” queried Jack, with her hand in his.

And she answered, “Yes, dreadfully,” with a feeling that if he asked anything further she would break down completely.

But Jack Forest was a young man of discretion.  He smiled upon her and said something about cakes for tea, after which he transferred his attention to more pressing matters.  Quite a strategist was Jack, though very few gave him credit for so being.

Later, he sat down beside his forlorn little cousin in the great buzzing vestibule of the hotel whither he had piloted the whole party, and gave her tea, while he plied the boys with questions.  But he never noticed that she could not eat, or commented upon her evident weariness.  Mademoiselle did both, but he did not hear.

Chris would have gladly escaped the ordeal of dining in the great salle-a-manger that night, but she could muster no excuse for so doing.  At any other time it would have been an immense treat, and she dared not let Jack think that it was otherwise with her to-night.

So they dined at length and elaborately, to Mademoiselle’s keen satisfaction, but she was aching all the while to slip away to bed and cry her heart out in the darkness.  She could not shake free from the memory of the friend who would be waiting for her on the morrow, drawing his pictures in the sand for the playfellow who would never see them—­who would never, in fact, be his playfellow again.

Returning to the vestibule after dinner to listen to the band was almost more than she could bear; but still she could not frame an excuse, and still Jack noticed nothing.  He sent the boys to bed, but, as a matter of course, she remained with Mademoiselle.

They found a seat under some palms, and Jack ordered coffee.  He got on very well with Mademoiselle as with the rest of the world, and there seemed small prospect of an early retirement.  But at this juncture poor Chris began to get desperate.  She had refused the coffee almost with vehemence, and was on the point of an almost tearful entreaty to be allowed to go to bed, when suddenly a quiet voice spoke close to her.

“Excuse me, Forest!  I have been trying to catch your eye for the past ten minutes.  May I have the pleasure of an introduction?”

Chris glanced quickly round at the first deliberate syllable, and saw a tall, grave-faced man of possibly thirty, standing at Jack’s elbow.

Jack looked round too, and sprang impulsively to his feet.  “You, Trevor!  I thought you were on the other side of the world.  My dear chap, why on earth didn’t you speak before?  You might have dined with us.  Mademoiselle Gautier, may I present my friend, Mr. Mordaunt?”