She dragged off her glove, and looked at her wedding ring; she had never taken it off since the moment in that dingy London church when Jimmy had slipped it on.

And yet it was such an empty symbol.  He had never loved her; he had married her because some other woman, whom he did love, was beyond his reach.

She did not cry; she seemed to have shed all the tears in her heart.  She just sat there motionless as the train raced her back to the old house and the old familiar scenes, where she had been happy—­many years ago—­with Jimmy Challoner.

He had wired to Gladys Leighton; Gladys would be there at the station to meet her.  She wondered what she would say to her.

She thought of the uncle who had journeyed to London with such reluctance to give her away; he would tell her that it served her right, she was sure.  Even on her wedding day he had trotted out the old maxim of marrying in haste.

Christine smiled faintly as she thought of him; after all, she need not see much of him—­he did not live near Upton House.  When the restaurant attendant came to tell her that lunch was ready, she followed him obediently.  Jimmy had tipped him half-a-crown to make sure that Christine went to the dining-car.  She even enjoyed her meal.  A man sitting at the same table with her looked at her curiously from time to time; he was rather a good-looking man.  Once when she dropped her gloves he stooped and picked them up for her; later on he pulled up the window because he saw her shiver a little.  “These trains are well warmed as a rule,” he said.

Christine looked at him timidly.

She liked his face; something about his eyes made her think of Jimmy.

“Are you travelling far?” he asked presently.

She told him—­only to Osterway.

He smiled suddenly.

“I am going there, too.  Do you happen to know a place called Upton House?”

Christine flushed.

“It’s my home,” she said.  “I live there.”

“What a coincidence.  I heard it was in the market—­I am going down with a view to purchase.”

Her face saddened.

“Yes—­it is to be sold.  My mother died last month. . . .  Everything is to be sold.”

“You are sorry to have to part with it?” he asked her sympathetically.

“Yes.”  Tears rose to her eyes, and she brushed them, ashamedly away.  “I’ve lived there all my life,” she told him.  “All my happiest days have been spent there.”  She was thinking of Jimmy, and the days when he rode old Judas barebacked round the paddock.

The stranger was looking at Christine interestedly; he glanced down at her left hand, from which she had removed the glove; he was surprised to see that she wore a wedding ring.

Surely she could not be married—­that child!  He looked again at the mourning she wore; perhaps her husband was dead.  He forgot for the moment that she had just told him of the death of her mother.