It was her first acquaintance with suffering in any form.
Jack Forest, big, square, and reliable, was waiting for them at the terminus.
The two boys greeted him with much enthusiasm, but Chris suffered her own greeting to be of a less boisterous character.

Dear as the sight of him was to her, it could not ease this new pain at her heart, and somehow she found it impossible to muster even a show of gaiety any longer.
"Tired ?" queried Jack, with her hand in his.
And she answered, "Yes, dreadfully," with a feeling that if he asked 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-a-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.