“But I have done nothing!” Bertrand protested, with outspread hands.

“No?  Well, I don’t believe you ought to be doing anything at present.  Come and sit down.”  Then, peremptorily, as Bertrand hesitated:  “I won’t have you overworking yourself.  Understand that!  I have had trouble enough to get you off the sick list as it is.”

He spoke with that faint smile of his that placed most men at their ease with him.  Bertrand turned impulsively and grasped his hand.

“You have been—­you are—­more than a brother to me, monsieur,” he said, with feeling.  “And I—­I—­ah!  Permit me to tell you—­I—­am glad that Mademoiselle has placed herself in your keeping.  It was a great surprise, yes.  But I am glad—­from my heart.  She will be safe—­and happy—­with you.”

He spoke with great earnestness; his sincerity was shining in his eyes.  Mordaunt, looking straight down into them, saw no other emotion than sheer friendliness, a friendliness that touched him, coming from one who was so nearly friendless.

“I shall do my best to make her so,” he made grave reply.  “She has been telling me about you, Bertrand.”

“Ah!” The Frenchman’s eyes interrogated him for a moment and instantly fell away.  “I am surprised,” he said, “to be remembered after so long.  No, I had not forgotten her; but that is different, n’est-ce pas?  I think that no one would easily forget her.”  He smiled as though involuntarily at some reminiscence. “Christine et le bon Cinders!” he said in his soft voice.  “We were all friends together.  We were—­” again his eyes darted up to meet the Englishman’s level scrutiny—­“what you call ‘pals,’ monsieur.”

Mordaunt smiled.  “So I gathered.  It happened at Valpre, I understand.”

Bertrand nodded.  His eyes grew dreamy, grew remote.  “Yes,” he said slowly, “it happened at Valpre.  The little one was lonely.  We made games in the sand.  We chased the crabs; we explored the caves; we played together—­as children.”  He stifled a sudden sigh, and rose. “Eh bien,” he said, “we cannot be children for ever.  We grow up—­some quick—­some slow—­but all grow up at last.”

He broke off, and took up the evening paper to cut the leaves.

Mordaunt watched him in silence—­a silence through which in some fashion he conveyed his sympathy; for after a moment Bertrand spoke again, still dexterously occupied with his task.

“Ah! you understand,” he said.  “I have no need to explain to you that this meeting with my little friend who belonged to the happy days that are past has given me almost as much of pain as of pleasure.  I do not try to explain—­because you understand.”

“You will get over it, my dear fellow,” Mordaunt said, with quiet conviction.

“You think it?” Bertrand glanced up momentarily.

“I do,” Mordaunt answered, with a very kindly smile.  “In fact, I think, with all due respect to you, that you are younger than you feel.”