Sangster caught his breath hard in his throat.  He looked at her, and he had to hold himself back with an iron hand to keep from rushing to her, from falling at her feet in abasement for the very real doubt and dread that he had cherished against her.

She looked so young—­such a child, and her brown eyes were so sweet and shy as she looked at Jimmy—­never at him.  He realised it with a little stabbing pain that it was not once at him that she looked, but past him, to where Jimmy stood like a man turned to stone.

Then:  “Christine,” said Jimmy Challoner with a great cry.

He put out his hand and touched her, almost as if he doubted that she was real.  His breath was coming fast; he was ashen pale.

“Christine,” he said again in a whisper.

Sangster moved past him.  He did not look at Christine any more.  He walked to the door and opened it.  He hesitated a moment, wondering if either of them would see him going, be conscious of his presence.  But he might not have been there for all they knew.  He went out slowly and shut the door behind him.

It was the shutting of the door that broke the spell, that roused Jimmy from the lethargy into which he had fallen.  He tried to laugh.

“I’m sorry.  I—­I didn’t expect you.”  The words sounded foolish to himself.  He tried to cover them.  “Won’t you sit down?  I’m—­I’m glad. . . .”  A wave of crimson surged to his face.  “Oh, my God!  I am glad to see you,” he said hoarsely.

He groped backwards for his chair and fell into it.

A most humiliating weakness came over him.  He hid his face in his hands.

Christine stood looking at him with troubled eyes; then she put out her hand and touched him timidly: 

“Jimmy!”

He caught her hand and carried it to his lips.  He kissed it again and again—­the little fingers, the soft palm, the slender wrist.

“I thought I should never see you again.  I couldn’t have borne it. . . .  Christine—­oh my dear, forgive me, forgive me.  I’m so wretched, so utterly, utterly miserable. . . .”

The appeal was so boyish—­so like the old selfish Jimmy whom Christine had loved and spoilt in the days when they were both children.  It almost seemed as if the years were rolled away again and they were down at Upton House, making up a childish quarrel—­Jimmy asking for pardon, she only too anxious to kiss and be friends.

Tears swam into her eyes and her lips trembled; but she did not move.

“I want to tell you something,” she said slowly.

He looked up, his eyes full of a great dread.

“Not that you’re going away—­I can’t bear it.  You’ll drive me mad—­Christine—­little Christine.”  He was on his knees beside her now, his arms round her waist, his face buried in the soft folds of her dress.  “Forgive me, Christine—­forgive me.  I love you so, and I’ve been punished enough.  I thought you’d gone away with that devil—­that brute Kettering.  I’ve been half mad!” He flung back his head and looked at her.  She was very flushed.  Her eyes could not meet his.