"No, no," she said wretchedly. "You mustn't speak like that. If anything happened to you I should feel that—" Her hand gripped the arm of the chair until the skin stood out white over her knuckles. "Oh," she ended, almost with a sob, "I don't know what to do. It's all so hopelessly complicated and difficult."
I fought down a sudden fierce longing to take her in my arms.
"Don't look so unhappy, Christine," I said. "I can stand a good deal, but that finishes me completely."
With a gallant if rather wistful attempt to smile she sat back in her chair.
"There's only one thing I want to know," I went on, following up my advantage, "and you needn't tell me that if you would rather not."
She made a slight movement of her head, as if wishing me to continue.
"How long have you been friends with Dr. Manning?"
I put the question quite bluntly, and I saw the faintest possible flush come into her face.
"I am not a friend of Dr. Manning's," she answered. "I dislike him intensely. If the choice rested with me, I should never see him again."
"We appear to have one taste in common at all events," I remarked with approval.