It was an abominable thing to have done, he told himself—­abominable; and yet, as he read the skilfully penned words, his vain man’s heart beat a little faster at the knowledge that she still loved him, this woman who had thrown him over so heartlessly; she still loved him, though it was too late.  The faint scent of the lilies which her note-paper always carried brought back the memory of her with painful vividness.  Before he was conscious of it, Jimmy had lifted the letter to his lips.

He flung it from him immediately in honest disgust; he despised himself because he could not forget her; he tried to imagine what Christine must be thinking—­be suffering.  With sudden impulse he tore open the door; he went across to her room—­their room; he tried the handle softly.  It was locked.

“Christine!” But there was no answer.  He called again:  “Christine!” And now he heard her voice.

“Go away; please go away.”  An angry flush dyed his face.  After all, she was his wife; it was absurd to make this fuss.  After all, everything had happened before he proposed to her; it was all over and done with.  It was her duty to overlook the past.

He listened a moment; he wondered if anyone would hear if he ordered her to let him in—­if he threatened to break the door down.

He could hear her crying now; hear the deep, pitiful sobs that must be shaking her whole slender body.

“Christine!” But there was nothing very masterful in the way he spoke her name; his voice only sounded very shamed and humiliated as, after waiting a vain moment for her reply, he turned and went slowly away.

CHAPTER XII

SANGSTER IS CONSULTED

Jimmy had been married two days when one morning he burst into Sangster’s room in the unfashionable part of Bloomsbury.

It had been raining heavily.  London looked grey and dismal; even the little fat sparrows who twittered all day long in the boughs of a stunted tree outside the window of Sangster’s modest sitting-room had given up trying to be cheerful, and were huddled together under the leaves.

Sangster was in his shirt-sleeves and old carpet slippers, writing, when Jimmy entered.  He looked up disinterestedly, then rose to his feet.

“You! good heavens!”

“Yes—­me,” said Jimmy ungrammatically.  He threw his hat on to the horsehair sofa, which seemed to be the most important piece of furniture in the room, and dropped into a chair.  “Got a cigarette?  My case is empty.”

Sangster produced his own; it was brown leather, and shabby; very different from the silver and enamel absurdity which Jimmy Challoner invariably carried.

After a moment: 

“Well?” said Sangster.  There was a touch of anxiety in his kindly eyes, though he tried to speak cheerfully.  “Well, how goes it—­and the little wife?”