She stood twisting her fingers agitatedly.  Suddenly she went to where he stood; she tried to put her arms round his neck, but he resisted fiercely.  He held her wrists; he kept his head flung back beyond her reach.

“It’s too late, Cynthia—­do you hear!  I’ve given my word; I’m not going back on it now.  You can’t blame me. . . .  I—­I’d have given my life for this to have happened before—­just a few days ago; but now——­”

“You don’t love me,” she accused him passionately; she began to cry.  “You said you would never love any woman but me as long as you lived.  I thought you cared more for me than I do for you, but now I know you don’t—­you don’t care so much.  If you did you would give up this—­this girl, whoever she is, without a single thought.”  Her voice dropped sobbingly.  “Oh, Jimmy—­Jimmy, don’t be cruel; you can’t mean It.  I love you so much . . . you belonged to me first.”

“You sent me away; you lied to me and deceived me.”

He felt that he must keep on reminding himself of it; that he dared not for one instant allow himself to forget everything but how beautiful she was, and how much he wanted her.

She fell back from him; she dropped into a chair, hiding her face, and sobbing.

There was a touch of the theatrical in her attitude, but Jimmy was too miserable to be critical.  He only knew that she was miserable and on his account, and that he loved her.

He broke out agitatedly: 

“Don’t, Cynthia—­don’t cry; you break my heart. . .  Oh, for God’s sake, don’t cry.”

“You don’t care how miserable I am,” she sobbed.  “You—­you haven’t got a heart to break, if you can stand there like a stone and tell me that it’s too late.  It’s not too late; you’re not married yet.  Tell her the truth; oh! if you love me tell her the truth, Jimmy.”

Jimmy was looking at her, but for a moment he only saw the big sitting-room at the hotel where Mrs. Wyatt had died, and the crushed little figure of Christine herself, as he had knelt beside her and drew her head to his shoulder.

“Oh, Jimmy, I’ve got no one now—­no one.”  Her voice came back to him, a mournful echo; and his own husky answer: 

“You’ve got me, Christine!”

How could he go back on that—­how could he add to her weight of sorrow?

“She’s got nobody but me in all the world,” he said simply; he was looking at Cynthia now, as if he found it easier.  “She has just lost her mother, and she’s the loneliest little thing——­” he stopped jaggedly.

For a moment she did not answer; she had stopped sobbing; she was carefully wiping her eyes; she got up and walked over to the glass above the mantelshelf; she looked at herself anxiously.

“Well, I suppose it’s good-bye, then,” she said heavily; her voice dragged a little.  She picked up her gloves and a silver chain-bag which she had thrown down on the table; she turned towards the door.  “Good-bye, Jimmy.”