This was the end of everything; this was the end of all her dreams of happiness of the future.
She sat there for a long, long time, unconscious of her surroundings; it was only when the band had stopped playing, and a sort of silence fell everywhere, that she moved stiffly and went back up the stairs to her own room.
She stood there by the bed for a moment, looking round her with dull eyes; the clock on the mantel-shelf pointed to nine.
Too late to go away to-night. Was it too late? A sudden memory leapt to her mind.
Jimmy and she had gone down to Upton House by a train later than this the day after her mother died. She tried to remember; it had been the nine-fifty from Euston, she was sure. She made a rapid calculation; she could catch that if she was quick—catch it if she hurried. She threw off her slippers; she began to collect a few things together in a handbag; her breath was coming fast—her heart was racing. She would never come back any more—never live with him again. She had lost her last shred of trust in him—she no longer loved him.
She was pinning on her hat with shaking fingers when someone tried the handle of the door—someone called her name softly.
"Christine . . ." It was Jimmy.
She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe. She pressed her hands over her lips, as if afraid that he would hear the quick beating of her frightened heart.
"Christine . . ." He waited a moment, then she heard him saying something under his breath impatiently; another second, and he turned away to the sitting-room opposite.
She heard him moving about there for some time; she looked at the clock. Almost too late to go now; a fever of impatience consumed her.