Sangster moved past him. He did not look at Christine any more. He walked to the door and opened it. He hesitated a moment, wondering if either of them would see him going, be conscious of his presence. But he might not have been there for all they knew. He went out slowly and shut the door behind him.
It was the shutting of the door that broke the spell, that roused Jimmy from the lethargy into which he had fallen. He tried to laugh.
"I'm sorry. I—I didn't expect you." The words sounded foolish to himself. He tried to cover them. "Won't you sit down? I'm—I'm glad. . . ." A wave of crimson surged to his face. "Oh, my God! I am glad to see you," he said hoarsely.
He groped backwards for his chair and fell into it.
A most humiliating weakness came over him. He hid his face in his hands.
Christine stood looking at him with troubled eyes; then she put out her hand and touched him timidly:
"Jimmy!"
He caught her hand and carried it to his lips. He kissed it again and again—the little fingers, the soft palm, the slender wrist.
"I thought I should never see you again. I couldn't have borne it. . . . Christine—oh my dear, forgive me, forgive me. I'm so wretched, so utterly, utterly miserable. . . ."
The appeal was so boyish—so like the old selfish Jimmy whom Christine had loved and spoilt in the days when they were both children. It almost seemed as if the years were rolled away again and they were down at Upton House, making up a childish quarrel—Jimmy asking for pardon, she only too anxious to kiss and be friends.