So gaily she diverted the conversation, mainly because she had caught a gleam of tears in her friend’s eyes and was aware that they had not been far from her own.  It would never do for them to sit crying together on her birthday night.  Besides, it was too ridiculous, for what was there to cry about?  Bertrand was in a better position now than he had been for years.  And she—­and she—­well, it was her birthday, and surely that was reason enough for being glad.

It was Bertrand who at length gently drew her attention to the time.  They had been talking for the best part of an hour.

“Will not the supper dances be nearly finished?” he suggested.

“Oh, goodness!” exclaimed Chris.  “Yes, long ago.  We must fly.  Say good-bye to Cinders.  You will come and see him again soon, won’t you?  Come just as often as you can.”

At the door she paused a moment, slipped a warm hand into his, and for the first time shyly broke her silence upon the subject of her approaching marriage.

“I’m so glad you are coming to live with us when we are married,” she said.  “I shall never feel lonely with you there.”

“You would not be lonely without me,” he made quick response.  “You will have always your husband.”

She caught her breath, and then laughed.  “To be sure.  I hadn’t thought of that.  But Trevor is always busy, and he is going to write a book too.”  She looked at him with sudden mischief in her eyes.  “Yes, I am very glad you are coming,” she said again.  “When he doesn’t want you with him you can come and play with me.  And when it’s summer”—­her eyes fairly danced—­“we’ll go for picnics, Bertie, lots of picnics.  You’ll like that, preux chevalier?”

He smiled back upon her; who could have helped it?  But he stifled a sigh as he smiled.  Would life be always a picnic to her, he asked himself?  He could not imagine it otherwise, and yet he knew that even upon this child of mirth and innocence the reality of life must dawn some day.  Would it be a gracious dawning of pearly tints and roselit radiance, gradually filling that eager young soul to the brim with the greater joys of life?  Or would it be fiery and terrible, a blinding, relentless burst of light, from which she would shrink appalled, discerning the wrath of the gods before ever she had realized their bounty?

Could it be thus with her, his little comrade, his bird of Paradise, his darling?  He thought not.  He believed not.  And yet deep in the heart of him he feared.

And because of that lurking fear he vowed silently over the little friendly hand that lay so confidingly in his that never while breath remained in his body would he leave her until he knew her happiness—­the ultimate happiness of her womanhood—­to be assured.