"I—I'm not good at that sort of thing, Jimmy. It's not that I'm unwilling to help you; I'd do anything——"
"Well, then, try it; there's a good chap. You—you were so decent to her that day Mrs. Wyatt died; you've got a sort of way that I haven't. I—I should be no end obliged. I'll—I'll keep out of the way myself for a bit, and then——" He looked anxiously at his friend. "Will you go?"
"She probably won't see me if I do."
"She will. She's sick of the sight of me."
Sangster smiled in spite of himself. He got up, stretching his arms; he shook his head at Jimmy.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking," said Jimmy savagely. "But I swear to you that it's not my fault this time, anyway. I swear to you that I've done my best. I——"
"I'm not doubting it," said Sangster dryly. He fetched his hat and coat from a room adjoining, and they went out into the street together.
"Take her out to lunch," said Jimmy nervously. "Take her for a walk in the park—try to rouse her a bit; but for heaven's sake don't talk about me."
He looked anxious and worried; he really was very upset; but he was conscious of an enormous sense of relief as he and Sangster parted at the street corner. As soon as Sangster was out of sight he hailed a taxi, and told the man to drive him to his club. He ordered a stiff brandy and soda, and dropped into one of the deep leathern arm-chairs with a sigh. He had been married only three days, and already it seemed like three years. Of course, he was not blaming Christine, poor little girl; but—oh, if only she hadn't been quite such a child!
He lifted the glass, and looked at its contents with lugubrious eyes.