anything further she would break down completely.

But Jack Forest was a young man of discretion. He smiled upon her and
said something about cakes for tea, after which he transferred his
attention to more pressing matters. Quite a strategist was Jack, though
very few gave him credit for so being.

Later, he sat down beside his forlorn little cousin in the great buzzing
vestibule of the hotel whither he had piloted the whole party, and gave
her tea, while he plied the boys with questions. But he never noticed
that she could not eat, or commented upon her evident weariness.
Mademoiselle did both, but he did not hear.

Chris would have gladly escaped the ordeal of dining in the great
_salle-à-manger_ that night, but she could muster no excuse for so doing.
At any other time it would have been an immense treat, and she dared not
let Jack think that it was otherwise with her to-night.

So they dined at length and elaborately, to Mademoiselle's keen
satisfaction, but she was aching all the while to slip away to bed and
cry her heart out in the darkness. She could not shake free from the
memory of the friend who would be waiting for her on the morrow, drawing
his pictures in the sand for the playfellow who would never see them--who
would never, in fact, be his playfellow again.

Returning to the vestibule after dinner to listen to the band was almost
more than she could bear; but still she could not frame an excuse, and
still Jack noticed nothing. He sent the boys to bed, but, as a matter of
course, she remained with Mademoiselle.