“I am so glad,” she said.  “I like him so much.”

She was almost friendly to him after that.  Once or twice he made her laugh.

He was very careful to keep always to impersonal subjects.  He behaved just as if they were good friends out for an evening of enjoyment.  When they left the theatre Christine looked brighter than he had seen her for weeks.  Jimmy was profoundly grateful.  He was delighted that Sangster should see her with that little flush in her cheeks.  She did not look so very unhappy, he told himself.

Sangster was waiting for them when they reached the supper-room.  He greeted Christine warmly.  He told her jokingly that he had got his dress-suit out of pawn in her honour.  He looked very well and happy.  The little supper passed off cheerily enough.  It was only afterwards, when they all drove to the hotel where Christine was staying, that Sangster blundered; he held a hand to Jimmy when he had said good night to Christine.

“Well, so long, old chap.”

Jimmy flushed crimson.

“I’m not staying here.  Wait for me; I’m coming along.”

“You’re a silly fool,” Jimmy said savagely, as they walked away.  “What in the world did you want to say that for?”

“My dear fellow, I thought it was all right.  I thought you’d made it up.  I’m awfully sorry.”

“We haven’t made it up—­never shall from what I can see,” Jimmy snapped at him.  “Oh, for the Lord’s sake let’s talk about something else.”

Sangster raised his troubled eyes to the dark starless sky.  He had been so sure everything was all right.  Jimmy had made no recent confidence to him.  He had thought Christine looked well and happy—­and now, after all. . . .

“It looks as if we shall have some more rain,” he said dully.  “It’s been awful weather this week, hasn’t it?”

“Damn the weather!” said Jimmy Challoner.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE UNEXPECTED

Four days passed away, and still the Great Horatio had not arrived in London.  He had sent a couple of telegrams from Marseilles explaining that a chill had delayed him.

“Sly old dog,” Jimmy growled to Sangster.  “He means that he’s having a thundering good time where he is.”

Sangster laughed.

“Marseilles isn’t much of a place.  Perhaps he really is ill.”

Jimmy grunted something unintelligible.

“I doubt it,” he added.  “And the devil of it is that Christine doesn’t believe me.  She doesn’t think the old idiot’s coming home at all; she doesn’t believe anything I tell her—­now.”

“Nonsense!” But Sangster’s eyes looked anxious.  He had seen a great deal during the last four days, and for the first time there was a tiny doubt in his mind.  Had Christine really lost her love for Jimmy?  He was obliged to admit that it seemed as if she had.  She never spoke to him if she could help it, and he knew that Jimmy was as conscious of the change as he, knew that Jimmy was worrying himself to a shadow.