She began to cry softly; big tears ran down her cheeks, and she brushed them angrily away.
She had tried to shut him out of her heart. She had tried to forget him. In a defensive, innocent way she had deliberately encouraged Kettering. She liked him, and he helped her to forget; it restored her self-esteem to read the admiration in his kind eyes, it helped to soothe the hurt she had suffered from Jimmy's hands; and yet, in spite of it all, he was not Jimmy, and nobody could ever take Jimmy's place. She kept away from Gladys till lunch time, when at last she appeared, her eyes were red and swollen, and she held her head defiantly high. Gladys considerately let her alone. Somehow, in spite of everything, she quite expected to hear that Christine was off to London by the afternoon train, but the meal passed almost in silence, and when it was finished Christine said:
"We'd better get ready; Mr. Kettering will be there at two."
Gladys turned away.
"I'd rather not go, if you don't mind," she said uncomfortably.
"Not—go!"
"No—I—I don't care about motoring. I—I've got a headache too."
Christine stared at her, then she laughed defiantly.
"Oh, very well; please yourself."
She went upstairs to dress; she took great pains to make herself look pretty. When Kettering arrived she noticed that his eyes went past her gloomily as if looking for someone else.