"Oh, Jimmy—what will mother say?" she whiskered. "And—and Mr.
Sangster?"
Jimmy laughed outright then. She was such a child. Why on earth should it matter what Sangster said?
Christine did not know why she had spoken of him at all; but his kind face had seemed to float into her mind with the touch of Jimmy's lips. She was glad she had liked him. He was Jimmy's friend; now he would be her friend, too.
There was an awkward silence. Jimmy made no attempt to kiss her again—he did not even touch her.
He was thinking of the night when he had asked Cynthia to marry him. It had been in a taxi—coming home from the theatre. In imagination he could still smell the scent of the lilies she wore in her fur coat—still feel the touch of her hair against his cheek.
That had been all rapture; this—he looked at Christine remorsefully. Poor child, she missed nothing in this strange proposal. Her eyes were like stars. As she met Jimmy's gaze she moved shyly across to him and raised her face.
"Kiss me, Jimmy," she said.
Jimmy kissed her very softly on the cheek. She put her hands up to his broad shoulders.
"And—and you do—really—love me?" she asked wistfully.
Jimmy could not meet her eyes, but—