But still her faint misgiving did not wholly die away.  Though Trevor Mordaunt had secured for himself the girl of his choice, she could not suppress a grave doubt as to whether he had yet succeeded in winning her heart.  He would ultimately win it; she felt convinced of that.  He was a man who was bound sooner or later to rule supreme.  And thus she strove to reassure herself; but still, in spite of her, the doubt remained.  Chris was so young, so gay, so innocent.  She could not bear to think of the troubles and perplexities of womanhood descending upon her.  She was so essentially made for the joy of life.

She sat and watched her unperceived, the slim young figure in the shaded lamplight, the shining hair, the slender neck—­all vivid, instinct with life; and she comprehended the witchery that had caught Mordaunt’s heart.  Of the man himself she knew but little.  He was not expansive, and circumstances had not thrown them together.  But what she knew of him she liked.  She was aware that her brother valued his friendship very highly—­a friendship begun on a South African battlefield; and though they had met but seldom since, the intimacy between them had remained unshaken.

Trevor Mordaunt was a man of many friends—­friends in all ranks and of many nationalities.  No one knew quite how he made them; no one ever saw his friendships in the making.  But all over the world were men who hailed his coming with pleasure and saw him go with regret.

She supposed him capable of a vast sympathy, a wide understanding.  It seemed the only explanation.  But would he understand her little Chris? she wondered.  Would he make full allowance for her dear caprices, her whimsical fancies, her butterfly temperament?  Would he ever thread his way through these fairy defences to that hidden shrine where throbbed her woman’s heart?  And would he be the first to enter there?  She hoped so; she prayed so.

“Hilda”—­imperiously the gay voice broke through her reverie—­“if Percy wants to know what sort of pendants to give the bridesmaids, be sure you say turquoise and pearl.  It’s most important.”

She was still strumming her waltz, and did not hear Mordaunt enter behind her.

“I saw a most lovely thing to-day,” she went on.  “One of those heart-shaped things that are still hearts even if you turn them upside down.”

“Is that an advantage?” asked Mordaunt.

She whizzed round on the music-stool.  “Trevor!  I wish you wouldn’t make me jump.  Of course it is an advantage if a thing never looks wrong way up.  You will remember, won’t you, Hilda?  Turquoise and pearl.”

“Are you going to be chief mourner?” asked Rupert.

“Don’t be horrid!  I’m going to be chief bridesmaid, if that’s what you mean?”

“And turquoise and pearl is to be the order of the day?” queried Mordaunt.

“A white muslin frock and a blue sash, I suppose,” supplemented Rupert.  “Hair worn long and tied with a blue bow rather bigger than an ordinary-sized sunshade.  No shoes and no stockings, but some pale blue sandals over white lace socks.  Result—­ravishing!”