He tossed the brandy and soda off at a gulp. He looked at his watch; half-past four. They had been married only two hours; and he had got to spend all the rest of his life with her.
Poor little Christine—it was not her fault. He had asked her to marry him; he meant to be good to her. A servant came to the door.
"Mrs. Challoner said would I tell you that tea is served upstairs in the sitting-room, sir."
Jimmy squared his shoulders; he tried to look as if there had been a Mrs. Challoner for fifty years; but the sound of Christine's new name made his heart sink.
"Oh—er—thanks," he said as carelessly as he could. "I'll go up." He waited a few moments, then he went slowly up the stairs, feeling very much as if he were going to be executed.
He stood for a moment on the landing outside the door of the private sitting-room, with an absurdly schoolboyish air of bashfulness.
He passed a hand nervously over the back of his head; he wriggled his collar; twice he took a step forward and stopped again; finally the appearance of a servant along the corridor drove him to make up his mind. He opened the door with a rush.
Christine was standing over by the window; the afternoon sunshine fell on her slim, black-robed figure and brown hair. She turned quickly as Jimmy Challoner entered.
"Tea has been up some minutes; I hope it's not cold."
"I like it cold," said Jimmy.