Chris went, with a worried pucker between her brows.  How curious it was that some people failed so completely to take a reasonable view of things!  They made mountains out of molehills, and expected her to climb them—­she, whose unwary feet were accustomed to trip so lightly along easy ways.  And Trevor too—­she caught her breath with a sharp shiver—­was he really seriously displeased with her?  He had given no hint of it when they had danced together, save that he had been somewhat grave and silent.  But then, he was naturally so.  She had not thought much of it; in fact, she had been thinking mainly of Bertie.

And here a sudden throb of dismay sent the blood to her heart.  Aunt Philippa was going to speak to him upon this subject, was going to suggest unspeakable things, was going to talk over her conduct with him and make him furious in earnest.  And then it would all come out about her having met Bertrand all those years ago.  Trevor would mention that in the natural course of things, and then Aunt Philippa would tell him—­would tell him—­

“Chris, dear, what is the matter?  You are as white as a ghost.”

It was Hilda’s voice gently recalling her.  She came to herself with a start, and the hot blood rose to her cheeks with a rush.

“Are you very tired after yesterday?” her cousin asked.  “I am afraid you got up too early.”

“Oh, no!” said Chris.  “I wasn’t early at all.  I didn’t ride this morning.  Jack has promised to come for me this evening instead.”

She diverted Hilda’s attention desperately.  She could not make confidences in the presence of the dressmaker.  Moreover, she was not sure that she wanted to talk even to Hilda about her pal from Valpre.  It was true Hilda understood most things, but Aunt Philippa had somehow managed to inspire her with a sense of guilt.  She knew she could not speak of Bertrand with ease to anyone now.

Besides, there was no time.  The moment she was free she must manage somehow to communicate with Trevor.  She must warn him of Aunt Philippa’s intentions.  She must explain to him.

She did not want him to know about that night in the Magic Cave.  Everyone who heard of it was shocked, everyone except Max, and he made a speciality of never being shocked at anything.  Why, it was even possible—­here a new thought leaped up and struck her an unexpected blow—­was it not more than possible that it was this self-same event that had given rise to the insult that had led to the duel?  Of course that must be it!  That was why Bertrand so persistently refused to enlighten her.  How was it she had never before thought of it?  It was the truth of course!  How had she failed to see anything so glaringly apparent?

Yes, it was the truth.  She had blundered upon it unawares, and now she surveyed it horror-stricken, remembering Bertrand’s warning that the knowledge of evil was a poisonous thing.  So must Eve have felt when first her eyes were opened to the wisdom of the gods.