She put up her hands to her eyes with a little shudder.
"I don't want to hear anything about her; I don't ever want to hear her name again."
"I'm sorry, dear." The word of endearment slipped out unconsciously.
Christine's little figure quivered; suddenly she began to sob.
She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly. The one little word of endearment was like a ray of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of her heart, melting it, breaking her down.
"Christine!" said Jimmy in a choked voice.
He went over to her. He put an arm round her, drawing her nearer to the fire. He made her sit in the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her, holding her hand. He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the many passionate words of remorse that rose to his lips, but somehow he was afraid. He was not sure of her yet. He was afraid of startling her, of driving her back into cold antagonism and suspicion.
Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand and wiped away the tears.
"It was silly to cry," she said jerkily. "There was nothing to cry for." She was ashamed that she had broken down; angry that the cause of her grief had been that one little word of endearment spoken by Jimmy.
He rose to his feet and went to stand by the mantelshelf, staring down into the fire.
There was a long silence.