Was it--politics, Bertie?"

He stopped. "It was not politics, Christine," he said.

"Then--" She paused, expectant.

His face contracted slightly. "Yes, it was--a woman. But I say nothing
more than that. We will speak of it--never again."

But this was very far from satisfying Chris. "Tell me at least about the
woman," she urged. "Is it--is it the girl you are going to marry?"

But he stood silent, looking at her again with that expression in his
eyes that had puzzled her before.

"Is it, Bertie?" she insisted.

"And if I tell you Yes?" he said at last.

She made a queer little gesture, the merest butterfly movement, and yet
it had in it the faintest suggestion of hurt surprise.

"And you never told me about her," she said.

He leaned swiftly towards her. There was a sudden glow on his olive face
that made him wonderfully handsome. "_Mignonne_!" he said eagerly, and
then as swiftly checked himself. "Ah, no, I will not say it! You do not
love the French."

"But I want to hear about your _fiancée_," she protested. "I can't think