THE PAST RETURNS
Christine had learned a great deal since her marriage. As she stood on the platform at Euston that morning with Jimmy Challoner she felt old enough to be the grandmother of the girl who had looked up at him with such glad recognition less than a month ago in the theatre.
Old enough, and sad enough.
She could not bear to look at him now. It cut her to the heart to see the listless droop of his shoulders and the haggard lines of his face. It was not for her—his sorrow; that was the thought she kept steadily before her eyes; it was not because he had offended and hurt her past forgiveness; but because Cynthia Farrow was now only a name and a memory.
The train was late in starting. Jimmy stood on the platform trying to make conversation; he had bought a pile of magazines and a box of chocolates which lay disregarded beside Christine on the seat; he had ordered luncheon for her, although she protested again and again that she should not eat anything.
He racked his brains to think if there were any other little service he could do for her. He was full of remorse and shame as he stood there.
She had been so fond of him—she had meant to be so happy; and now she was glad to be leaving him.
The guard blew his whistle. Jimmy turned hastily, the blood rushing to his white face.
"If you ever want me, Christine——" She seemed not to be listening, and he broke off, only to stumble on again: "Try and forgive me—try not to think too hardly of me." She looked at him then; her beautiful eyes were hard and unyielding.
The train had begun to move slowly from the platform. Jimmy was on the footboard; he spoke to her urgently.