He tossed the brandy and soda off at a gulp.  He looked at his watch; half-past four.  They had been married only two hours; and he had got to spend all the rest of his life with her.

Poor little Christine—­it was not her fault.  He had asked her to marry him; he meant to be good to her.  A servant came to the door.

“Mrs. Challoner said would I tell you that tea is served upstairs in the sitting-room, sir.”

Jimmy squared his shoulders; he tried to look as if there had been a Mrs. Challoner for fifty years; but the sound of Christine’s new name made his heart sink.

“Oh—­er—­thanks,” he said as carelessly as he could.  “I’ll go up.”  He waited a few moments, then he went slowly up the stairs, feeling very much as if he were going to be executed.

He stood for a moment on the landing outside the door of the private sitting-room, with an absurdly schoolboyish air of bashfulness.

He passed a hand nervously over the back of his head; he wriggled his collar; twice he took a step forward and stopped again; finally the appearance of a servant along the corridor drove him to make up his mind.  He opened the door with a rush.

Christine was standing over by the window; the afternoon sunshine fell on her slim, black-robed figure and brown hair.  She turned quickly as Jimmy Challoner entered.

“Tea has been up some minutes; I hope it’s not cold.”

“I like it cold,” said Jimmy.

As a matter of fact, he hated tea at any time, and never drank it if it could be avoided; but he sat down with as good a grace as he could muster, and took a cup from her hand with its new ring—­his ring.  Jimmy Challoner glanced at it and away again.

“Nice room this—­eh?” he asked.

“Yes.”  Christine had sugared her own cup three times without knowing it; she took a cake from the stand, and dropped it nervously.  Jimmy laughed; a boyish laugh of amusement that seemed to break the ice.

“Anyone would think you had never seen me before,” he said, with an attempt to put her at her ease.  “And I’ve known you all your life!”

“I know; but——­” She looked at him with very flushed cheeks.  “I’m afraid, Jimmy—­afraid that you’ll find you’ve made a mistake; afraid that you’ll find I’m too young and—­silly.”

“You’re not to call the lady I have married rude names.”

“But it’s true,” she faltered.  She put down the cup and went over to where he sat.  She stood with her hands clasped behind her, looking down at him with a sort of fond humility.

“I do love you, Jimmy,” she said softly.  “And I will—­I will try to be the sort of wife you want.”

Jimmy tried to answer her, but somehow the words stuck in his throat.  She was not the sort of wife he wanted, and never would be.  That thought filled his mind.  All the willingness in the world could not endow her with Cynthia’s eyes, Cynthia’s voice, Cynthia’s caressing way of saying, “Dear old boy.”