“Merveilleux!” exclaimed the Frenchman.

She turned upon him.  “Now, Bertie, you needn’t pretend you are not at the bottom of it, for I am old enough to know better.  No,” as he shrugged his shoulders and spread out his hands, “it’s not a bit of good doing that.  It doesn’t deceive me in the least.  I know you did it, and you’re a perfect dear, and it was sweet of you to think of it.  It’s the best picnic I ever went to.  And you even thought of tea,” catching sight of a small spirit-kettle that sang in a sheltered corner.  “Let’s have some at once, shall we?  I’m so thirsty.”

He had forgotten nothing.  From a basket he produced cups, saucers, plates, knives, and arranged them on his improvised table.

Chris surveyed the cake with frank satisfaction.  “What a mercy the gulls didn’t seize it while your back was turned!  Do cut it, quick!”

“No, no!  You will perform that ceremony,” smiled Bertrand.

“Shall I?  Oh, very well.  I expect I shall do it very badly.  What lovely sweets!  Did they come out of the Magic Cave?  I hope they won’t vanish before we come to eat them.”

“I thought that my bird of Paradise would like them,” he said softly.

“Your bird of Paradise loves them,” promptly returned Chris.  “In fact, if you ask me, I think she is inclined to be rather greedy.  Please take the kettle off.  It’s spluttering.  You must make the tea if I’m to cut the cake.  And let’s be quick, shall we?  I believe it’s going to rain!”

They were not very quick, however, for, as Chris herself presently remarked, one couldn’t scramble over such a cake as that.  And the rain came down in a sharp shower before they had finished, and drove them into the Magic Cave for shelter.

The girl’s young laughter echoed weirdly along the rocky walls as she entered, and she turned with a slightly startled expression to make sure that her companion was close to her.

He had paused to rescue the remains of the feast.  “Quick!” she called to him.  “You will be drenched.”

“Je viens vite—­vite,” he called back, and in a few seconds was at her side.

“Comment!” he said.  “You are afraid, no?”

“No,” said Chris, colouring under his look of inquiry.  “But it’s horribly eerie.  Where is Cinders?”

A muffled bark from the depths of the cave answered her.  Cinders was obviously exploring on his own account, and believed himself to be on the track of some quarry.

“Light the lantern—­quick!” commanded Chris, her misgivings diverted into another channel.  “We mustn’t lose him.  Isn’t it cold!”

She shivered in her light dress, but turned inwards resolutely.

“Tenez!” exclaimed the Frenchman, quick to catch her mood.  “I will go to find the good Cinders.  He is not far.”

“And leave me!” said Chris quickly.

“Eh bien!  Let us remain here.”