He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; their eyes met, and the next moment she was in his arms.
He never knew how it happened; never knew if he made the first move towards her, or she to him; but he held her fast, kissing her as he had never kissed little Christine—her eyes, her hair, her warm, tremulous lips.
"You do love me, then, after all?" she whispered.
Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, hiding his eyes.
"You know I do," he said hoarsely.
He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he could not bear to look at her; when she had gone, he sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his face in his hands.
His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire.
The day after to-morrow he was to marry Christine. He had given his promise to her, and he knew that it was too late to draw back—too late to break her heart. And yet there was only one woman in all the world whom he loved, and whom he wanted—the woman from whom he had just parted; the woman who was even then driving away down the street with a little triumphant smile on her carefully reddened lips.