"I'm trying to say that I'm sorry; I'm trying to tell you that I—I don't mind how poor you are. I thought I did, but—oh, Jimmy, I'd rather have you, and no money at all, than—than be as rich as Croesus with—with any other man."
"Cynthia!" Jimmy spoke her name in a stifled voice; she raised her eyes quickly. There was none of the passionate joy in his face which she had so confidently expected; none of the passionate joy in his voice which her heart told her ought to be there. Suddenly he turned aside from her; he put his arm down on the mantelshelf, hiding his face in it.
"Jimmy." She whispered his name with a sort of fear. "Jimmy—what—what is it? Oh, you are frightening me. I thought you would be so glad—so glad." She caught the limp hand hanging against his side; she laid her soft cheek to it.
Jimmy Challoner tore himself free with a sort of rage.
"It's too late—too late," he said hoarsely.
"Too—late!" She stared at him, not understanding. "What—what do you mean? That—that you can't forgive me; that—that you're so angry that—that——"
He swung round, white-faced and quivering.
"It's too late," he said again hopelessly. "I'm engaged to be married.
I—oh, why did you ever send me away?" he broke out in anguish.
Her face had paled, but she was still far enough from understanding.
"Engaged to be married—you! To whom, Jimmy?"