“You have a proverb in England,” he said, “concerning those who watch the game, that they see more than those who play.  Shall we say that it is thus with me?  You and Christine are my very good friends, and I know you both better than you know each other.”

“I believe you do,” Mordaunt said, smiling faintly himself.  “Well, I suppose I must let the youngster off his thrashing for her sake.  I wonder if he has gone to bed.”  He glanced at the clock.  “It’s time you went, anyhow.  You are looking fagged to death.  Go and sleep as long as you can.”

He gripped the Frenchman’s hand, looking at him with a kindly scrutiny which Bertrand refused to meet.  He never encouraged any reference to his health.

“I am all right,” he said with emphasis, but he returned the hand-grip with a warmth that left no doubt as to the cordiality of his feelings.  He was ever too polished a gentleman to be discourteous.

Left alone, Mordaunt sat down at his writing-table to clear off some work which he had taken out of his secretary’s hands earlier in the day.  It was midnight before he finished, and even then he sat on for a long time deep in thought.

It was probably true, what Bertrand had said.  Tenderly as he loved his young wife, he had not succeeded in winning her confidence.  There was no friendship between them in the most intimate sense of the word, and so she feared him.  His love was to her a consuming flame from which she shrank.  Bitterly he admitted the fact, since there was no ignoring it.  She was frightened at the very existence of his passion, restrain it how he would.  She was his and yet not his.  She eluded him, even when he held her in his arms.

His thoughts travelled backwards, recalling incident after incident, all pointing to the same thing.  And yet he knew that he had been patient with her.  He had held himself in check perpetually.  And here again Bertrand’s words recurred to him.  If he had asked more, might he not have obtained more?  Was it possible that he had failed to win her because he had not let her feel the compulsion of his love?  Was it perchance his very restraint that frightened her?  Had he indeed asked too little?

Again his thoughts went back and dwelt upon their wedding-night.  He had kindled some answering flame within her then.  She had not attempted to withhold herself.  The memory of her shy surrender swept over him, setting the blood leaping in his veins anew.  She had been his that night, and his throughout the brief fortnight that followed.  They had been very intent upon the renovations, and no cloud had even shadowed their horizon.  How was it she had slipped away from him since?  Was it the advent of that tempestuous youngster that had caused the change?  Undoubtedly Chris was less a Wyndham when alone with him.  Or was there some other cause, arising possibly from some hidden fluctuation of mood, some restlessness of the spirit, of which he had had no warning?  Her aunt’s declaration that they were all lacking in stability recurred to him.  Was it so with her?  Was she fickle, was she changeable, his little Chris?