“Really?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes, really!” Chris was emphatic.  “And I am sure there is nothing much the matter with you, Bertie; now, is there?”

He scarcely responded.  “It will pass,” he said.  “And so you have arranged to make visits this afternoon?”

“Yes.  Isn’t it a bother?” Chris’s brow wrinkled.  “Noel wanted me to go and fish with him, but Trevor says I must go and see Mrs. Pouncefort, so I suppose I must.  I hoped he would come too, but he has got to stay and interview the architect about that subsidence in the north wing.  I wish you would come instead.”

He shook his head.  “No—­no!  That is not possible.  Where does this lady live?”

“Sandacre way, towards the sea.  Oh, do you know Rupert is coming over on Sunday with some brother officers?  I had a card from him this morning.  He is very fond of Mrs. Pouncefort—­they all are.  I don’t know quite why.  I believe they spend half their time there.  Mr. Pouncefort is a dear little man—­no one could help liking him.  He has a yacht, and they always have a crowd of people staying there at this time of the year.”

“Alors,” he said, “it will amuse you to go there, no?”

Chris smiled.  “Oh, not particularly.  I would much rather stay with you and Trevor.  Besides, I’ve such a lot to do.”

She did not look overwhelmed with work as she leaned back in her hammock-chair, but she evidently intended to be busy, for a basket and scissors stood beside her.

Bertrand was much too courteous to suggest that she was not making the most of her time.  Or perhaps he did not want to be left in solitary contemplation of that fleeting August morning.  He lay silent for a little, and presently requested permission to smoke a cigarette.

“Of course,” she said at once.  “Why don’t you go and lie in the hammock?  I will come and rock you to sleep.”

He thanked her, smiling, but declined.

She watched him light his cigarette with eyes grown thoughtful.  Suddenly: 
“Bertie,” she said, “are you very unhappy nowadays?”

He made a jerky movement, and dropped the match, still burning.  Hastily he bent to extinguish it, but Chris was before him, her hand upon his arm, restraining him.

“No, sit still!  It’s all right.  Tell me, please, Bertie!  I want to know.”

He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, still smiling, but in a fashion that she was at a loss to interpret.

“But what a question, petite!  How can I answer it?”

“I should have thought—–­between friends—–­” she began.

“Ah, oui!  We are friends, are we not?” A curious expression of relief took the place of his smile, and she felt as if for some reason he had been afraid.  “And you ask me if I am unhappy,” he said. “Mais vraiment—­I know not what to say!”

“Then you are!” she said, quick pain in her voice.