Kettering loomed in the background of his mind with hateful persistence; Kettering had looked at Christine as if—­as if——­ Jimmy roused himself with a sigh; it was a rotten world—­a damned rotten world.

Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for Christine, and talking about every conceivable subject under the sun except Jimmy.

Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap.  She took no interest in the proceedings, she hardly seemed to be listening to her friend’s chatter.

Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was making: 

“You really think I am doing the right thing, Gladys?”

Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk frock she had been folding fall to the floor.  She looked at the younger girl with affectionate anxiety.

“Yes, I do,” she said seriously.  “Things would never have got any better as they were.  It’s perfectly true, in my opinion, that if you don’t see a person for a long time you don’t care whether you ever see him again or not, and—­and I should hate you and Jimmy to—­to have a final separation, no matter what I’ve said, and no matter what a selfish pig he is.”

Christine smiled faintly.

“He can’t help not caring for me,” she said.

“No, but he can help having married you,” Gladys retorted energetically.  “Don’t think I’m sympathising with him.  I assure you I’m not.  I hope he’ll get paid out no end for what he’s done, and the way he’s treated you.  But—­but all the same, I think you ought to go back to him.”

Christine flushed.

“I hate the thought of it,” she said with sudden passion.  “I shall never forget those days in London.  I tried to pretend that everything was all right when anybody was there, just so that the servants should not see, but they all did, I know, and they were sorry for me.  Oh, I feel as if I could kill myself when I look back on it all.  To think I let him know how much I cared, and all the time—­all the time he wouldn’t have minded if he’d never seen me again.  All the time he was longing for—­for that other woman.  I know it’s horrid to talk like that about her, but—­but she’s dead, and—­and——­” she broke off with a shuddering little sigh.

“Things will come all right—­you see,” said Gladys wisely.  She picked up Christine’s frock and carefully folded it.  “Give him a chance, Christine; I don’t hold a brief for him, but, my word! it would be rotten if the Great Horatio found out the truth and cut Jimmy off with a shilling, wouldn’t it?  Of course, really it would serve him right, but one can’t very well tell him so.”  She shut the lid of the case, and rose to her feet.  “There, I think that’s all.  It must be nearly dinner time.”

But Christine did not move.

“I wish you would come with us,” she said tremblingly.  “Why can’t you come with us?  I shouldn’t mind half so much if you were there.”