SUMMER WEATHER

“I think quite the worst part of being married is having to pay calls,” said Chris.

“You do not like it, no?” said Bertrand, with quick sympathy.

“No,” she rejoined emphatically.  “And I don’t see any sense in it either.  No one ever wants afternoon callers.”

“But that depends upon the caller, does it not?” he said.

“Not in the least,” said Chris.  “There’s a stodginess about afternoon calling that affects even the nicest people.  It’s the most tiresome institution there is.”

“Then why do it?” he suggested, with a smile.

She shook her head severely.

“Don’t be immoral, Bertie!  You’re trying to tempt me from my duty.”

“Never!” he declared earnestly.

“Oh, but you are; and I am not sure that you are not neglecting your own as well.  What brought you out at this hour?”

He spread out his hands.  “Mr. Mordaunt has ordered me to take a rest to-day.”

Chris looked up at him sharply.  “Aren’t you well, Bertie?”

“But it is nothing,” he said.  “I have told him.  It happens to me often—­often—­that I do not sleep.  I have explained all that.  But what would you?  He is obstinate—­he will not listen.”

Chris patted a hammock-chair beside her.  “Sit down at once.  I knew there was something the matter directly I saw you this morning.  But you always look horribly tired.  Do you never sleep properly?”

He dropped into the chair and stretched up his arms with a sigh.  “It is only in the morning that I am tired,” he said.  “It is nothing—­a weakness that passes.  Or if it passes not—­I go.”

“Go!” repeated Chris, startled.

He turned his head towards her.  “That surprises you, yes?  But how can I remain if I cannot work?”

“Oh, but you haven’t been here a fortnight,” she said quickly.  “I expect the change of air has upset you.  And it has been so hot too.”

He acquiesced languidly, as if not greatly interested.  His dark eyes watched her gravely.  Evidently his thoughts had wandered from himself.

Chris was not slow to perceive this.  “What are you thinking of?” she demanded.

“I am thinking of you,” he answered promptly.

“What of me?” The blue eyes met his quite openly.  Chris was always frank to her pals.

“I was thinking,” he said, in his soft, friendly voice, “how you were happy, and how I was glad.”

She threw him a quick smile.  “How nice of you, Bertie!  And how beautifully French!  But, you know, I shan’t be happy if you talk of leaving us.  It will spoil everything, and I shall be absolutely miserable.”

“You were not miserable before I joined you, no?” he said, smiling back at her.

“Of course I wasn’t.  But that was quite different.  I knew all the while that you were coming.  I should have been if anything had happened to prevent you.”