“Don’t—­don’t take it away,” said Jimmy.  The double dose of brandy and his own agitation had excited him; he drew her over to the fire with him; he hardly knew what he was doing.

Suddenly:  “Will you marry me, Christine?” he said.

There was a sharp silence.

Christine’s little face had grown as white as death; her soft brown eyes were almost tragic.

“Marry you!” She echoed his words in a whisper.  “Marry you,” she said again.  “Oh, Jimmy!” She caught her breath in something like a sob.  “But—­but you don’t love me,” she said in a pitiful whisper.

Jimmy lost his head.

“I do love you,” he declared.  “I love you most awfully . . .  Say yes, Christine—­say yes.  We’ll be ever so happy, you and I; we always got on rippingly, didn’t we?”

Nobody had ever made love to Christine before, since the days when Jimmy Challoner had chased her round the garden for kisses, and she had always loved him.  She felt giddy with happiness.  This was a moment she had longed for ever since that night in the suburban theatre when she had looked up into the stage box and seen him sitting there.

Jimmy had got his arm round her now; he put his hot cheek to her soft hair.

“Say yes, Christine,” he whispered; but he did not wait for her to say it.  He could be very masterful when he chose, and with sudden impulsive impatience he bent and kissed her.

Christine burst into tears.

He had swept her off her feet.  A moment since she had never dreamed of anything like this; and now—­now her head was on Jimmy Challoner’s shoulder, and his arm round her.

“Don’t cry,” he said huskily.  “Don’t cry—­I didn’t mean to be a brute.  Did I frighten you?”

He was already beginning to realise what he had done.  A little cold shiver crept down his spine.

He had kissed this girl and asked her to marry him; but he did not love her.  There was something still of the old boyish affection for her in his hearty but nothing more.  Remorse seized him.

“Don’t cry,” he begged again with an effort.  “Would you like me to go away? . . .  Oh, don’t cry, dear.”

Christine dried her eyes.

“It’s—­it’s only be-because I’m so h-happy,” she said on the top of a last sob.  “Oh, J-Jimmy—­I do love you.”

The words sounded somehow infinitely pathetic.  Jimmy bit his lip hard.  His arm fell from about her waist.

“I—­I’m not half good enough for you,” he stammered.

He really meant that.  He felt himself a perfect rotter beside her innocent whole-hearted surrender.  Christine was looking at him with tearful eyes, though her lips smiled tremulously.

“Oh, Jimmy—­what will mother say?” she whiskered.  “And—­and Mr. Sangster?”

Jimmy laughed outright then.  She was such a child.  Why on earth should it matter what Sangster said?

Christine did not know why she had spoken of him at all; but his kind face had seemed to float into her mind with the touch of Jimmy’s lips.  She was glad she had liked him.  He was Jimmy’s friend; now he would be her friend, too.