"He's been making love to you——"
No answer. Jimmy took her face in his hands, searching its flushed sweetness with jealous eyes.
"Has he?" he demanded savagely.
"N-no . . . but . . . oh, Jimmy, don't look like that. He only came up this morning because—because Gladys is ill. He thought I ought to know and—and—I thought I would go down and see her. But in the train——" she faltered.
"Yes . . ." said Jimmy from between his teeth.
Christine raised her brown eyes.
"He said—he said——" Suddenly she fell forward, hiding her face against his coat. "Oh, it doesn't matter, dear; it doesn't matter, because it was then that I knew it was only you I wanted—only you I loved. I knew that I couldn't bear any other man to say that he loved me—that it was you—only you."
"Oh, my sweet!" said Jimmy huskily. He turned her face and kissed her lips. "I don't deserve it; but—oh, Christine, do believe that there's never been anyone like you in my life; that I've never cared for anyone as I do for you—all that—that other——"
"I know—I know," she was thinking remorsefully of the days when Kettering had seemed to come before Jimmy in her heart; of the days when she had been unhappy because he stayed away. And now there was a deep thankfulness in her heart that he himself had brought things to a climax. She had been so pleased to see him when he called at the hotel that morning. She had never dreamed that sheer longing had driven him to London to see her, or that he had made Gladys the excuse. She had readily agreed to a run down to Upton House to see Gladys. She had started off with him quite happily and unsuspectingly. And then—even now it sent a little shiver of dread through her to think of the way he had spoken—the way he had pleaded with her—looked at her.
He had held her hands, kissed them, he had tried to kiss her, and it had been the touch of his lips that had melted the numbness of her heart and told her that she loved Jimmy; that in spite of everything that had happened, everything he had done, he was the one and only man who would ever count in her life. Passionate revulsion had driven her back to London. She had parted with Kettering then and there. She had told him that she never wished to see him again. She had felt as if she could never be happy till she was back with Jimmy, till she had made it up with him, till they had kissed and forgiven one another. She told him all this now simply enough. The little Christine of happier days had come back from the land of shadowy memories to which she had retreated as she sat on Jimmy's knee and kissed him between their little broken sentences and asked him to forgive her.