“Ah, pauvre petite!” he said gently.

“And you didn’t know my name either, did you?” she said.  “I kept telling myself you would find out somehow and write—­but you never did.”

He spread out his hands.  “But what could I do?  Your name was not known.  And I—­I could not leave Valpre to seek you.  My duties kept me at the fortress.  And so—­and so—­I said that I would wait until my fortune was well assured, and then—­then—­” He stopped.  “But that is past,” he said, with an odd little smile that somehow cut her to the heart. “Et maintenant tell me of yourself, petite, of all your affairs.  Much may arrive in four years.  But first—­you are happy, yes?”

Eagerly the dark eyes sought hers as he asked the question.

Chris looked back at him with a little frown.  “Yes, I am happy, Bertie.  At least—­I should be happy—­if it weren’t for thinking of you.  Oh, Bertie, that horrid gun!  I always hated it!”

Again her voice quivered on the verge of tears, and again with a quick gesture he stayed her.

“We will speak of it no more,” he said.  “See!  We turn another page in the book of life, and we commence again.  Let us remember only, Christine, that we are good comrades, you and I. But it is a good thing, this camaraderie.  It gives us pleasure, yes?”

She gave him her hands impulsively.  “Bertie!” she cried.  “We shall always be pals—­always—­all our lives; but don’t—­dear, don’t smile at me like that!  I can’t bear it!”

He held her hands very tightly; he had wholly ceased to smile.  But still gallantly he shielded her from the danger she had not begun to see.  He did it instinctively, because of the love he bore her, and because of the innocence in her eyes.

“But what is it?” he said.  “It is necessary that we smile sometimes, cherie, since to weep is futile, and laughter is always more precious than tears.  Ah! that is better.  You smile yourself.  It is always thus that I remember my little friend of Valpre.  She was ever too brave for tears.”

He pressed her hands encouragingly, and again he let them go.  But the strain was telling upon him.  There was one subject which he could not trust himself to broach.

And for some reason Chris could not broach it either.  She took refuge in every-day affairs; she told him of the giddy doings that kept her occupied from morning till night, of Cinders (the mention of whose name kindled a reminiscent gleam in the Frenchman’s eyes), of the coming birthday dance, which he must promise to attend.

He shook his head over that; such gaieties were not for him.  But Chris pressed the point with much persistence.  Of course he must come.  It would be no fun without him.  Did he remember that birthday picnic at Valpre, and—­and the night they had passed in the Magic Cave?  She spoke of it with heightened colour and a hint of defiance which was plainly not directed against him.