"Don't take it so badly, Jimmy. It's—it's worse for me," her voice broke. A cleverer man than Jimmy Challoner might have heard the little theatrical touch in the words, but Jimmy was too genuinely miserable himself to be critical.
At the first sob he was on his feet. He put his arms round her; he laid his cheek against her hair; but he did not kiss her. Afterwards he wondered what instinct it was that kept him from kissing her. He broke out into passionate protestations.
"I can't give you up. There must be some way out for us all. You don't love him, and you do care for me. It can't be true, it's—it's some abominable trick to part us, Cynthia."
"It is true," she said again. "It is true."
She drew away from him. She began to cry, carefully, so as not to spoil her make-up. She hid her face in her hands. Once she looked at him through her white fingers to see how he was taking it. Jimmy Challoner was taking it very badly indeed. He stood biting his lip hard. His hands were clenched.
"For God's sake don't cry," he broke out at length. "It drives me mad to see you cry. I'll find a way out. We should have been so happy. I can't give you up."
He spoke incoherently and stammeringly. He was really very much in love, and now the thought of separation was a burning glass, magnifying that love a thousandfold.
There were voices outside. Cynthia hastily dried her eyes. She did not look as if she had been crying very bitterly.
"That's my call. I shall have to go. Don't keep me now. I'll write,
Jimmy. I'll see you again."
"You promise me that, whatever happens?"