He did not move; he stood staring down at the cheery fire, his elbow resting on the mantleshelf.
He wished now that he had not asked this of his wife; he wished he had braved the situation out and received the full vent of the Great Horatio's wrath alone. Christine would think less of him than ever for being the first to make overtures of peace; he could have kicked himself as he stood there.
Kettering loomed in the background of his mind with hateful persistence; Kettering had looked at Christine as if—as if—— Jimmy roused himself with a sigh; it was a rotten world—a damned rotten world.
Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for Christine, and talking about every conceivable subject under the sun except Jimmy.
Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She took no interest in the proceedings, she hardly seemed to be listening to her friend's chatter.
Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was making:
"You really think I am doing the right thing, Gladys?"
Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk frock she had been folding fall to the floor. She looked at the younger girl with affectionate anxiety.
"Yes, I do," she said seriously. "Things would never have got any better as they were. It's perfectly true, in my opinion, that if you don't see a person for a long time you don't care whether you ever see him again or not, and—and I should hate you and Jimmy to—to have a final separation, no matter what I've said, and no matter what a selfish pig he is."
Christine smiled faintly.