"Of course."
"And this morning I tried to apologise. I asked her to overlook everything that had happened, and—and start again." Jimmy laughed dully. "I—well, I believe she hates the sight of me."
Jimmy caught his breath hard on the memory of the burning hatred that had looked at him from Christine's beautiful brown eyes.
"It's quite for the best—this arrangement. Don't think I'm blaming her—I'm not; perhaps if she'd been a little older—if she'd known a little more about the world—she'd have been more tolerant; I don't know. Anyway, she's gone." He raised his humiliated eyes to Sangster's distressed face.
"She will forgive you. She's hurt now, of course; but later on . . ."
Jimmy shook his head.
"She's made me promise to keep away from her for six months. I had no option—she thinks the worst of me, naturally. She thinks that I—I cared for—for Cynthia—right up to the end. . . . I didn't." He stopped, choking. "She's dead—don't let's talk about it," he added.
Sangster had hardly touched his lunch; he sat smoking fast and furiously.
"Six months is a long time," he said at last.
"Yes—it's only a polite way of saying she never wants to see me again; and I don't blame her."