Tears swam into her eyes and her lips trembled; but she did not move.
"I want to tell you something," she said slowly.
He looked up, his eyes full of a great dread.
"Not that you're going away—I can't bear it. You'll drive me mad—Christine—little Christine." He was on his knees beside her now, his arms round her waist, his face buried in the soft folds of her dress. "Forgive me, Christine—forgive me. I love you so, and I've been punished enough. I thought you'd gone away with that devil—that brute Kettering. I've been half mad!" He flung back his head and looked at her. She was very flushed. Her eyes could not meet his.
"That's—that's just what I want to tell you," she said in a whisper.
Jimmy's arms fell from about her. He rose to his feet slowly; he tried to speak, but no words would come. Then, quite suddenly, he broke down into sobbing.
He was very much of a boy still, was Jimmy Challoner. Perhaps he would never grow up into a man as Kettering and Sangster understood the word; but his very boyishness was what Christine had first loved in him. Perhaps he could have chosen no surer or swifter way to her forgiveness than this. . . .
In a moment her arms were round his neck. She tried to draw his head down to her shoulder. Her sweet face was all concern and motherly tenderness as she kissed him and kissed him.
"Don't, Jimmy—don't! Oh, I do love you—I do love you."
She began to cry too, and they kissed and clung together like children who have quarrelled and are sorry.