As a matter of fact, he hated tea at any time, and never drank it if it could be avoided; but he sat down with as good a grace as he could muster, and took a cup from her hand with its new ring—his ring. Jimmy Challoner glanced at it and away again.
"Nice room this—eh?" he asked.
"Yes." Christine had sugared her own cup three times without knowing it; she took a cake from the stand, and dropped it nervously. Jimmy laughed; a boyish laugh of amusement that seemed to break the ice.
"Anyone would think you had never seen me before," he said, with an attempt to put her at her ease. "And I've known you all your life!"
"I know; but——" She looked at him with very flushed cheeks. "I'm afraid, Jimmy—afraid that you'll find you've made a mistake; afraid that you'll find I'm too young and—silly."
"You're not to call the lady I have married rude names."
"But it's true," she faltered. She put down the cup and went over to where he sat. She stood with her hands clasped behind her, looking down at him with a sort of fond humility.
"I do love you, Jimmy," she said softly. "And I will—I will try to be the sort of wife you want."
Jimmy tried to answer her, but somehow the words stuck in his throat. She was not the sort of wife he wanted, and never would be. That thought filled his mind. All the willingness in the world could not endow her with Cynthia's eyes, Cynthia's voice, Cynthia's caressing way of saying, "Dear old boy."
He choked back a big sigh; he found Christine's hand and raised it to his lips.