“No, but really, wouldn’t it be tragic?  I shouldn’t like a wet honeymoon, should you?  Hadn’t we better wait till August?  Or shall you be wanting to go to Scotland?”

“No,” he said.  “I am not going to Scotland this year.”

His eyes were still upon her, gravely watchful, but they expressed nothing of impatience or exasperation.  Very quietly he waited.

“Shall we say August, then?” said Chris, in a small, shy voice, not looking at him.

“Will your aunt remain in town for August?” he asked.

“But we are not obliged to be married in town,” she pointed out.

“Nor are we obliged to have a honeymoon, Chris,” he said.  “Shall we say St. Swithin’s Day, and forego the honeymoon—­if it rains?”

“Go straight home, you mean?” She turned back to him eagerly.  “Oh, Trevor, I should like that!  I do want to superintend everything there.  Yes, let’s do that, shall we?  I always did think honeymoons were rather silly, didn’t you?”

He smiled in spite of himself.  “I daresay they are—­from some points of view.  It is settled, then—­St. Swithin’s Day?”

She nodded.  “Yes.  And we will go straight to Kellerton afterwards, and work—­like niggers.  It won’t matter a bit then whether it rains or not.  And Noel can spend his holidays with us and help.  How busy we shall be!”

She laughed up at him, all shining eyes and dimples.

Again—­in spite of himself—­he laughed back, pinching her cheek.  “Will that please you, my little Chris?”

“Oh, ever so!” said Chris.

He stooped and lightly kissed her hair.  “Then—­so let it be!”

CHAPTER X

A SURPRISE VISIT

It was raining—­one of those sudden, pelting showers that descend from June thunder-clouds, brief but drenching.  It was also very dark, and Bertrand had switched on the light.  He was seated at Mordaunt’s writing-table, his black head bent over a pile of letters.  The pen he held moved busily, but not very quickly.  He was writing with extreme care.  It was evident that he meant his first day’s work to be a success.  He scarcely noticed the heavy downpour, being profoundly intent upon the work he had in hand.  Only at a sharp clap of thunder did he glance up momentarily and shrug his shoulders.  But he was at once immersed again in his occupation, so deeply immersed that at the opening of the door he did not turn his head.

Holmes paused just inside the room.  “If you please, sir—­”

“Ah, put it down, put it down!” said the Frenchman impatiently.  “I am busy.”

But Holmes, being empty-handed, did not comply with the request.  He remained hesitating, obviously doubtful, till with a sharp jerk de Montville turned in his chair.

“What is it, then?  I have told you—­I am busy.”

Holmes looked apologetic.  He found the abrupt ways of the new secretary somewhat disconcerting.  “It’s a young lady, sir,” he explained rather diffidently.  “It’s Miss Wyndham.  She run in here for shelter, and, seeing as Mr. Mordaunt be out, I didn’t know whether you would wish me to show her up or not, sir.”