Jimmy drew her into his arms, and they sat clasping one another in the big arm-chair. It was a bit of a squeeze, but neither of them minded. His arms were round her now, her head on his shoulder. He kissed her every minute. He said that he had all the byegone years of both their lives to make up for. He asked her a hundred times if she really loved him; if she had forgiven him; and if she loved him as much as she had done a month ago—two months ago; if she loved him as much as when they were children; and if she would love him all his life and hers.
"All my life and yours," she told him with trembling lips.
He had kissed the colour back to her cheeks by this time. She looked more like the girl he had seen that fateful night in the stalls at the theatre. He kissed her eyes because he said they were so beautiful. He kissed her hair.
Presently she drew a little away from him.
"But I want to talk to you," she said. She would not look at him. She sat nervously twisting his watch-chain.
"Yes," said Jimmy. He lifted her hand and held it against his lips all the time she spoke.
"It's about—about Mr. Kettering," she said in a whisper.
Jimmy swore—a sign that he was feeling much better.
"I don't want to hear his confounded name."
"Oh, but you must—Jimmy. I—I—he——"