“That’s—­that’s just what I want to tell you,” she said in a whisper.

Jimmy’s arms fell from about her.  He rose to his feet slowly; he tried to speak, but no words would come.  Then, quite suddenly, he broke down into sobbing.

He was very much of a boy still, was Jimmy Challoner.  Perhaps he would never grow up into a man as Kettering and Sangster understood the word; but his very boyishness was what Christine had first loved in him.  Perhaps he could have chosen no surer or swifter way to her forgiveness than this. . . .

In a moment her arms were round his neck.  She tried to draw his head down to her shoulder.  Her sweet face was all concern and motherly tenderness as she kissed him and kissed him.

“Don’t, Jimmy—­don’t!  Oh, I do love you—­I do love you.”

She began to cry too, and they kissed and clung together like children who have quarrelled and are sorry.

Jimmy drew her into his arms, and they sat clasping one another in the big arm-chair.  It was a bit of a squeeze, but neither of them minded.  His arms were round her now, her head on his shoulder.  He kissed her every minute.  He said that he had all the byegone years of both their lives to make up for.  He asked her a hundred times if she really loved him; if she had forgiven him; and if she loved him as much as she had done a month ago—­two months ago; if she loved him as much as when they were children; and if she would love him all his life and hers.

“All my life and yours,” she told him with trembling lips.

He had kissed the colour back to her cheeks by this time.  She looked more like the girl he had seen that fateful night in the stalls at the theatre.  He kissed her eyes because he said they were so beautiful.  He kissed her hair.

Presently she drew a little away from him.

“But I want to talk to you,” she said.  She would not look at him.  She sat nervously twisting his watch-chain.

“Yes,” said Jimmy.  He lifted her hand and held it against his lips all the time she spoke.

“It’s about—­about Mr. Kettering,” she said in a whisper.

Jimmy swore—­a sign that he was feeling much better.

“I don’t want to hear his confounded name.”

“Oh, but you must—­Jimmy.  I—­I—­he——­”

“He’s been making love to you——­”

No answer.  Jimmy took her face in his hands, searching its flushed sweetness with jealous eyes.

“Has he?” he demanded savagely.

“N-no . . . but . . . oh, Jimmy, don’t look like that.  He only came up this morning because—­because Gladys is ill.  He thought I ought to know and—­and—­I thought I would go down and see her.  But in the train——­” she faltered.

“Yes . . .” said Jimmy from between his teeth.

Christine raised her brown eyes.

“He said—­he said——­” Suddenly she fell forward, hiding her face against his coat.  “Oh, it doesn’t matter, dear; it doesn’t matter, because it was then that I knew it was only you I wanted—­only you I loved.  I knew that I couldn’t bear any other man to say that he loved me—­that it was you—­only you.”