She mopped her eyes obediently; she felt frightened.

The horrible feeling that Jimmy was a stranger came back to her afresh.  Oh, was this the kind boy lover who had been so good to her that day her mother died—­the kind lover who had taken her in his arms and told her that she had him, that he would never leave her?

She longed so for just one word—­one sign of affection; but Jimmy only sat there, hot and uncomfortable and silent.

After a moment: 

“Better?” he asked.

“Yes . . .”  She tried to control herself; she stammered a little shamed apology.  “I’m so sorry—­Jimmy.”

He patted her hand.

“That’s all right.”

She took courage; she looked into his face.

“And you do—­oh, you do love me?” she whispered.

“Of course I do.”  He put an awkward arm round her; he pressed her head to his shoulder, so that she could not see his face.  “Of course I do,” he said again.  “Don’t you worry—­we’re going to be awfully happy.”  He kissed her cheek.

Christine turned and put her arms round his neck; she was only a child still—­she saw no reason at all why she should not let Jimmy know how very much she loved him.

“Oh, I do love you—­I do,” she said softly.

Jimmy coloured hotly; he felt an uncontrollable longing to kick himself; he kissed her again with furtive haste.

“That’s all right, dear,” he said.

They had arranged to stay a week in London.

Christine liked London.  “And we couldn’t very well do anything very much, could we?” So she had appealed to him wistfully.  “When mother——­” She had not been able to go on.

Jimmy had agreed hastily to anything; he had chosen a very quiet and select hotel, and taken a suite of rooms.  He did not know how on earth they were going to be paid for; he was counting on an extra cheque from the Great Horatio as a wedding present.  He was relieved when the taxi stopped at the hotel; he got out with a sigh; he turned to give his hand to Christine; his heart smote him as he looked at her.

Sangster was right when he had called her “such a child.”  She looked very young as she stood there in the afternoon sunshine, in her black frock, and with her white flowers clasped nervously in both hands.  Jimmy felt conscious of a lump in his throat.

“Come along, dear,” he said very gently; he put his hand through her arm.  They went into the hotel together.

Christine went upstairs with one of the maids.  Jimmy said he would come up presently for tea; he went into the smoking-room and rang for a brandy and soda.  For the first time in his life he was genuinely afraid of what he had done; he knew now that he cared nothing for Christine.  It was a terrifying thought.

And she had nobody but him—­the responsibility of her whole life lay on his shoulders; it made him hot to think of it.