He led her across the hall to a settee.  Someone had thrown a scarf upon it.  He put it round her shoulders.

“It isn’t mine,” she said, “and it isn’t that sort of cold either.  I hope Aunt Philippa isn’t teasing Bertie.  Do you think she is?”

“I think he can take care of himself,” Mordaunt said.

“Do you?  I don’t.  Aunt Philippa is sure to say horrid things to him.  I think we ought to go and find them—­really.”

There was a note of pleading in her voice, but Mordaunt did not respond to it.  He sat and contemplated her, as if his thoughts were elsewhere.

He leaned forward at last and spoke very quietly.  “Chris,” he said, “forgive me for asking, but—­you have paid your debts?”

The colour surged up all over her fair face.  She began to pluck restlessly at her fan.  But she said no word.  Only as he took it gravely from her, she glanced up as though compelled, and for a single instant sheer panic looked at him out of her eyes.

“My dear,” he said, “will you attend to the matter to-morrow?”

But still she was silent, quiveringly, piteously silent.  The colour had gone out of her face now; she was as white as the dress she wore.

“You will?” he said gently.

She made a little sound that was like a repressed sob, and put her hand sharply to her throat.

“You will?” he said again.

“Yes,” she whispered.

He dismissed the matter instantly, opened the fan he had taken from her, and began to admire it.

“Jack gave it to me,” she said.  “It’s a birthday present.  He always gives me nice things.  So do you, Trevor.  Your pendant is the loveliest thing I have ever seen.”

He had sent her a pendant of turquoise and pearl, and it hung upon her neck at the moment.  She fingered it lovingly.

“I shall go to bed in it,” she said, “so as to have it all night long.  It feels so delicious.  I wish I could see it.  It was the very thing I saw in Bond Street a few weeks ago, and wanted to wear at Hilda’s wedding.”  She broke off with a sudden sigh.  “It will be horrid when Hilda’s married.”

“Will it?” he said.

“Yes, horrid,” she repeated with vehemence.  “Aunt Philippa is going to turn all her attention to me then.  Of course, I know she is very kind, but—­well, I feel as if this is my last week of freedom.  I shall be almost glad when—­” She broke off abruptly.  “Do let us go and rescue Bertie,” she said, “before we get swallowed up in the crowd.”

He got up at once and silently offered his arm.  She slipped her hand within it, and gave it a little squeeze.

“We’ll dance to the finale next time,” she said lightly.  “It’s much more fun than talking.”

She added carelessly, as they moved away together:  “By the way, I had my photograph taken this morning.  I don’t know if you will like it.  Shall I send you one?”

“Do,” he said.  And after a moment, smiling faintly:  “Was that the thing that was to please me?”