Noel, who had achieved the most saintlike behaviour during the past week, went also.  He made an ingratiating attempt at the last moment to persuade Mordaunt to let him drive.  But Mordaunt was as adamant upon that point.  He had issued a decree that Noel should drive no more during the summer holidays, and he meant to keep to it.

The prohibition did not extend to Chris, but she had shuddered at the bare mention of the motor ever since the accident, and he knew that she had not the faintest desire left to enlarge her experience in driving.

She was the last to leave the house on that sultry August afternoon, and Mordaunt saw at once that the ordeal of entering the car was a severe one.  She even turned so white at the sight of it that he feared a breakdown.

“Come and sit with me,” he said kindly.

She looked at him with a quick shake of the head.  “No, I’ll sit behind with Bertie if I may.  Noel can sit with you.”

Noel, who was already in the back seat, climbed over like a monkey, and Bertrand handed her in.

She sat very rigid until they were out of the avenue, and Bertrand was silent also.  But as they turned into the road he began to talk, gently and persuasively, upon indifferent things, resolutely passing by her silence until with a wan little smile she managed to respond.

Long before they reached Sandacre she had quite recovered her self-command, and the flash of the sea upon the horizon brought from her a quick exclamation of pleasure.

“Ah, yes, it is beautiful, that!” he agreed with enthusiasm.  “And there is the sand there, yes?”

She nodded.  “I used to think we’d go and picnic there.  But I don’t think I want to now.”

“Next year,” suggested Mordaunt, without turning his head.

“Perhaps,” she said, a little dubiously.

Bertrand said nothing.  He was looking out to the wide horizon with a far look in his eyes, almost as though he saw beyond that sparkling sky-line, even beyond the sea itself.

The strains of the military band from Sandacre reached them as they turned in at the wide-flung gates.  Chris’s eyes kindled almost in spite of her.  She loved all things military.

As for Bertrand, he sat bolt upright, with his head back, like a horse scenting battle.  Glancing at him, Chris wondered at his attitude, till suddenly she recognized the strains of the Marseillaise.

She squeezed his hand in sympathy as he helped her to alight, and he looked at her with his quick smile of understanding.  He was ever swift to catch her meaning.

They crossed a lawn that was crowded with people to a great cedar-tree, beneath which their hostess was receiving her guests.  A large woman with a lazy smile was Mrs. Pouncefort, and wonderful dark eyes that were seldom wholly revealed—­a woman who took no pains to please and yet whose charm was undeniable.  Her monarchy was absolute and her courtiers many, but other women looked at her askance, half-conscious of a veiled antagonism.  They were a little afraid of her also, though not one could have said why, since no bitter word was ever heard to pass her lips.