"Oh, very well." Christine stood quite still in the empty room when he had gone; it seemed all the more lonely and empty, now that once again she had been robbed of her eager hopes.
Jimmy was not coming home. Jimmy found her so dull and uninteresting that he was only too glad of an excuse to stay out.
She wondered where he had gone; whom the message had been from.
A sudden crimson stain dyed her cheek. . . . Cynthia Farrow!
She tried hard to stamp the thought out of existence—tried hard to push it from her but it was useless. It grew and grew in her agonised mind till she could think of nothing else. She walked about the room, wringing her hands.
If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, that was the end of everything. She could never forgive this. If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia, she hoped that she would die before she ever saw him again.
She could not believe that she had ever talked to him of Cynthia—that she had ever admired her, or thought her beautiful. She hated her now—hated her for the very charms that had so hopelessly captivated the man she loved. If Jimmy had gone to Cynthia . . . she stood still, fighting hard for self-control.
She tried to remember what Sangster had said:
"Jimmy is such a boy; give him a chance." And here she was already condemning him without a hearing.
She bit her lips till they bled. She would wait till she knew; she would wait till she was sure—quite sure.