“Ah!” There was not much conviction in Bertrand’s response.  He stood up and handed the paper to Mordaunt with a quick bow.  “But—­all the same—­you understand?” he questioned, with a touch of anxiety.

“Of course I understand,” Mordaunt answered gently.

CHAPTER XII

THE BIRTHDAY PARTY

“At last!” said Chris.

It was her birthday party, and she stood at the head of the stairs by her aunt’s side, receiving her guests.

Very young she looked, a child still, despite her twenty-one years, and supremely happy.  Her aunt, one of those ladies whose very smile is in itself an act of condescension, was treating her with unusual graciousness that night, and there was not a star awry in Chris’s firmament.

She had just caught a glimpse of her fiance in the crowd below her, and a hasty second glance had shown her that he was not unaccompanied.  A slight man, olive-skinned, with a very small, black moustache and quick eyes that searched upwards restlessly, was ascending the stairs with him.  In the instant that she looked those eyes found her, and flashed their quick recognition.

Chris waved her fan in eager greeting.  “Ah, there he is!” she cried aloud.

“My dear child!” said Aunt Philippa.

Impetuously Chris turned to her.  “He is a friend of mine, and Trevor’s secretary.  I told Trevor to bring him.  He is French, and his name is Bertrand.”

Her cheeks were flushed with excitement as she made this hasty explanation.  She had purposely left it till a crowded moment, for Aunt Philippa was apt to be very searching in her inquiries, and Chris shrank at all times from being catechized by this somewhat formidable relative of hers.

“Trevor knows all about him; they are friends,” she added, in response to a slight drawing of the brows, with which she was tragically well acquainted.

“All?” murmured Max in her ear from her other side, with a mischievous twinkle in his green eyes.

Chris ignored him, but she turned a vivid crimson, and the hand she stretched to Mordaunt was quivering with agitation.  But in his quiet grasp it became still.  She looked up into his eyes and smiled a welcome with recovered self-possession.

“Oh, Trevor, here you are!  And you’ve brought Bertie as you promised.”  She gave her other hand to Bertrand with the words, but she did not speak to him—­she went on talking to her fiance.  “I’ve had a tremendous day, and thank you a million times for—­you know what.  It’s a good thing you booked your dances beforehand, for I haven’t any left.”

“Not one for me?” murmured Bertrand, as he bent over her hand.

She turned to him with a radiant smile.  “Yes, yes, of course!  Should I be likely to forget all old pal like you?  Trevor, will you introduce him to Aunt Philippa?”

“My friend Mr. Bertrand,” said Mordaunt promptly.