Jimmy tried to laugh; It was a miserable failure. "She's hardly spoken to me since," he went on, after a moment, wretchedly. "I've—oh, I've had a devil of a time these last two days, I can tell you. I can't get her to come out with me—she hardly leaves her room; she just cries and cries," he added with a sort of weariness. "Just keeps on saying she wants her mother—she wants her mother."
"Poor little girl."
"Yes—that's how I feel," said Jimmy. "It's—it's perfectly rotten, isn't it? And she looks so ill, too. . . . What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything."
"Well, then, I wish to God you would," said Jimmy with sudden rage. "I'm about fed-up with life, I can tell you——" He broke off. "Oh, I don't mean that; but I'm worried to death. I—what the devil can I do?" he asked helplessly.
Sangster did not know how to answer; he sat staring down at the worn toes of his carpet slippers and thinking of Christine.
She was such a child, and she loved Jimmy so much. It made his heart ache to think of the shy happiness he had always read in her eyes whenever she looked at Jimmy.
"Of course, I shouldn't have told you, only I know you won't say a word," said Jimmy presently. "I—I stood it as long as I could; I stood it till I felt as if I should go mad, and then I bolted off here to you. . . . She's got nobody but me, you see." He drew a long breath. "I only wish to God Mrs. Wyatt were alive," he added earnestly.
Sangster said nothing. "I wondered if, perhaps, you'd go round and see her, old chap," Jimmy jerked out then. "She likes you. Of course, you needn't say you'd seen me. Couldn't you 'phone up or something? Get her to go out. . . . She'll die if someone can't rouse her."
Sangster coloured.