A little gleam of something like sympathy shot into the man’s eyes.  The chambermaid who waited on Christine was voluble, and a friend of his, and he had heard a great deal from her that was untrue, mixed up with a smattering of truth.

He said that he was sure Mrs. Challoner was in; he sent a page-boy up with Sangster’s card.

It seemed a long time before the reply came.  Mrs. Challoner would be pleased to see Mr. Sangster; would he go up to her sitting-room.

Sangster obeyed reluctantly; he dreaded tears; he dreaded to see grief and disillusionment in the beautiful eyes which he could only remember as happy and trusting.  He waited nervously till she came to him.  He looked round the room apprehensively; it had an empty, unlived-in look about it, though there were various possessions of Jimmy’s scattered about it—­a pipe, newspapers, and a large box of cigarettes.  There was a small pair of Christine’s slippers, too, with high heels.  Sangster looked at them with eyes which he did not know were tender.  They seemed to appeal to him somehow; there was such a solitary look about them, standing there in a corner by themselves.

Then the door opened and she came in; a little pale ghost of the girl whom he had last seen, with quivering lips that tried to smile, and shadows beneath her eyes.

It was an effort to Sangster to greet her as if he were unconscious of the tragedy in her face; he took her hand in a close grip.

“I am so glad you allowed me to come up; I didn’t want to intrude; I asked for Jimmy, but they told me he was out, and so I wondered if you would see me—­just for a moment.”

“I am very glad you came; I”—­she bit her lip—­“I don’t think Jimmy will be back to lunch,” she said.

“Capital!” Sangster tried to speak naturally; he laughed.  “Then will you come out to lunch with me?  Jimmy won’t mind, and——­”

“Oh, no, Jimmy won’t mind.”  There was such bitterness in her voice that for a moment it shocked him into silence; she looked at him with burning eyes.  “Jimmy wouldn’t mind no matter what I did,” she said, almost as if the words were forced from her against her will.  “Oh, Mr. Sangster, why did you let him marry me?—­you must have known.  Jimmy doesn’t care any more for me than—­than you do.”

There was a tragic pause.  She did not cry; she just looked at him with broken-hearted eyes.

“Oh, my dear; don’t—­don’t say that,” said Sangster in distress.

He took her hand and held it clumsily between his own.  Her words had been like a reproach.  Was he to blame? he asked himself remorsefully; and yet—­what could he have done?  Christine would not have believed him had he tried to tell her.

“It’s true,” she said dully.  “It’s true . . . and now I haven’t got anybody in all the world.”

Sangster did not know what to answer.  He broke out awkwardly that things were always difficult at first; that Jimmy was really one of the best; that if only she would have a little patience, everything would come right; he was sure of it.