It was not until after dinner that Noel emerged from his lair in the gun-room and announced everything to be in readiness.  He called Chris out on to the terrace to assist him, and Aunt Philippa and Bertrand were left—­an ill-assorted couple—­to watch and admire the result of his efforts.  Aunt Philippa invariably maintained a demeanour of haughty reserve if she found herself alone with her host’s French secretary, an attitude in which he as invariably acquiesced with an impenetrable silence which she resented without knowing why.  He was always courteous, but he never tried to be agreeable to her, and this also Aunt Philippa resented, though she would have mercilessly snubbed any efforts in that direction had he exerted himself to make them.

The night was dark and still, an ideal night for fireworks.  Noel began with the failures which he had not the heart to waste.  He was keeping the choicest of his collection till the last.  Consequently there were a good many crackling explosions on the ground with nothing but a few sparks to compensate for the noise, and Aunt Philippa very speedily tired of the din.

“This is childish as well as dangerous,” she said.  “I shall go to the library.  There will at least be peace and quietness there.”

“Without doubt,” said Bertrand.

He accompanied her thither with a polite regard for her comfort for which he received no gratitude, and then returned to smoke his cigarette in comfort by the open French window that overlooked the terrace.

A ruddy glare lit up the scene as he took up his stand.  The failures were apparently exhausted, and Noel had begun upon the masterpieces.  Chris’s quick laugh came to him, as he stood there watching.  Yet he frowned a little to himself as he heard it, missing the gay, spontaneous, childish ring that he had been wont to hear.  What had come to her of late?  Was it true that she had told him on the night of Cinders’ death?  Was she indeed grown-up?  If so—­he changed his position slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of her in the fitful glare of one of Noel’s Roman candles—­had the time come for him to go?  He had always faced the fact that she would not need him when her childhood was left behind.  And certainly of late she had not seemed to need him.  She had even—­he fancied—­avoided him at times.  He wondered wherefore.  Could it have been at her aunt’s instigation?  Surely not.  She was too staunch for that.

There remained another possibility, and, after a little, reluctantly, with clenched teeth, he faced it.  Had she by some means discovered that which he had so studiously hidden from her all this time?  He cast his mind back.  Had he ever inadvertently betrayed himself?  He knew he had not.  Never since her marriage had he given the faintest sign; no, not even on that fateful afternoon when she had clung to him in anguish of soul and he had held her fast pressed against his heart.  He had been strictly