So it was not that she did not love him. His first thought was one of utter relief—thank God, it was not that!
She put the little silver box down with a sort of impatience. "Yes," she said. She spoke so softly he could hardly catch the monosyllable.
Challoner leaned his head in his hands. He was trying desperately to think, to straighten out this hopeless tangle in his brain, but everything was confused.
Of course, he knew that she had been married before—knew that years and years ago, before she had really known her own mind, she had married a man—a worthless waster—who had left her within a few months of their marriage. She had told him this herself, quite straightforwardly. Told him, too, that the man was dead.
And after all he was still living!
The knowledge hammered against his brain, but as yet he could not realise its meaning. Cynthia went on jerkily.
"I only knew—yesterday. I wrote to you. I—at first I thought it could not be true. But—but now I know it is. Oh, why don't you say something—anything?" she broke out passionately.
Challoner looked up. "What can I say, if this is true?"
"It is true," her face was flushed. There was a hard look in her eyes as if she were trying to keep back tears. After a moment she moved over to where he sat and laid a hand on his shoulder.
Jimmy Challoner turned his head and kissed it.