Presently he came back to where she sat—this poor little wife of his.
"Forgive me, dear," he said, very humbly. "I—I ask your pardon on my knees—and—it isn't too late; we've got all our lives before us. We'll go right away somewhere—you and I—out of London. We'll never come back."
She echoed his words painfully.
"You and I? I—I can't go anywhere—ever—with you—now!"
He broke into anger.
"You're talking utter nonsense; you must be mad. You've married me—you're my wife. You'll have to come with me—to do as I tell you. I—oh, confound it——!" He broke off, realising how dictatorial his voice had grown. He paced away from her again, and again came back.
"Look at me, Christine." She raised her eyes obediently. The hot blood rushed to Jimmy's face. He wondered if It were only his fancy, or if there were really scorn in their soft brownness. He tried to speak, but broke off. Christine rose to her feet; she passed the pink letter as if she had not seen it; she walked to the door.
"Where are you going?" asked Jimmy sharply.
She looked back at him. "I don't know. I—oh, please leave me alone," she added piteously as he would have followed her.
He let her go then; he waited till the door had shut, then he snatched up Cynthia's letter once again, and read it through.