There was a little silence. Sangster slipped a hand through Jimmy's arm.
"Thanks—thanks very much," he said. He led Jimmy away.
He called a taxi and told the man to drive to Jimmy's rooms. He made no attempt to speak, did not know what to say. Jimmy was leaning back with closed eyes.
Presently:
"Do you think she's gone?" he asked huskily.
Sangster made a hurried gesture of denial:
"No, no."
Jimmy laughed mirthlessly.
"She has," he said. "I know she has. Serves me damned well right. It's all I deserve." There was a little pause. "Well," he said, "she's more than got her own back, if it's any consolation to her to know it."
He felt as if there were a knife being turned in his heart. His whole soul revolted against this enforced pain. He had never suffered like this in all his life before. Even that night at the theatre, when Cynthia Farrow had given him his congé, he had not suffered as now; then, it had been more damage to his pride than his heart; but this—he loved Christine—he knew now that he loved little Christine as he had never loved any other woman, as he never would love anyone again.