"I will go to your rooms if—if you will answer me one thing," said
Christine abruptly.
Jimmy stared. The colour ran into his pale face.
"I will answer anything you like to ask me—you know I will."
"Did—did Miss Farrow ever go to your rooms?"
She asked the question tremblingly; she could not look at him. With a sudden movement Jimmy dropped his face in his hands; the hot blood seemed to scorch him; this sudden mention of a name he had never wished to hear again was almost unbearable.
"Yes," he said; "she did." He looked up. "Christine—don't condemn me like that," he broke out agitatedly. He saw the cold disdain in her averted face.
"She lived such a different life from anything you can possibly imagine. It's—well—it's like being in another world. Women on the stage think nothing of—of—the free-and-easy sort of thing. She used to come to my rooms to tea. She used to bring her friends in after the theatre—after rehearsals." He leaned over as if to take her hand, then drew his own away again. "I—I ask you to come now because—because I thought you would take away all the memories I want to forget. Can't you ever forget too? Can't you ever try and forgive me? It's—it's—awful to think that we may have to live together all our lives and that you'll never look at me again as you used to—never be glad to see me, never want me to touch you." His voice broke; he bit his lip till it bled.
Christine clasped her hands hard in her lap.
"It was awful to me too—once," she said dully. "Awful to know that you didn't love me when I was so sure that you did. But I've got over it. I suppose you will too, some day, even if you think it hurts very much just now. I dare say we shall be quite happy together in our own way some day. Lots of married people are—quite happy together, and don't love each other at all."
She dismissed him when they reached the hotel. She went up to her room and cried.