It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his mind day and night, night and day; Christine for whose sake he reproached himself so bitterly and could get no rest.  She was so young—­such a child.

Every day he found himself remembering some new little incident about her; every day some little jewel from the past slipped out of the mists of forgetfulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask: 

“Have you forgotten me?  Don’t you remember——­”

He could not help thinking of Christine’s mother too; he had been fond of her—­she had mothered him so much in the old days; he wondered if she knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort of a hash he had made of life for poor little Christine.

“You’d better cut off to bed,” Sangster said again bluntly.

He lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke into the air; he was really disturbed about Jimmy.  The repeated advice seemed to annoy Jimmy; he frowned and rose to his feet; he caught his breath with a sort of gasp of pain.  Sangster turned quickly.

“What’s up, old chap?”

“Only my rotten head—–­it aches like the very devil.”

Jimmy stood for a moment with his hand pressed hard over his eyes, then he took a step forward, and stopped again.

“I can’t—­I—­confound it all——­”

Sangster caught his arm.

“Don’t be an ass; go to bed.”  He raised his voice; he called to Costin; between them they put Jimmy to bed and tucked him up.  He kept protesting that there was nothing the matter with him, but he seemed grateful for the darkness of the room, and the big pillows beneath his aching head.

Sangster went back to the sitting-room with Costin.

“I don’t think we need send for a doctor,” he said.  “It’s only a chill, I think.  See how he is in the morning.  What’s he been up to, Costin?”

Costin pursed his lips and raised his brows.

“He’s been out most nights, sir,” he answered stoically.  “Only comes home with the milk, as you might say.  Hasn’t slept at all, and doesn’t eat.  It’s my opinion, sir, that he’s grieving like——­” He looked towards the mantelshelf and the place which they could both remember had once held Cynthia Farrow’s portrait.

Sangster shook his head.

“You mean——­” he asked reluctantly.

“Yes, sir.”  Costin tiptoed across the room and closed the door which led to Jimmy’s bedroom.  “He’s never been the same, sir, since Miss Farrow died—­asking your pardon,” he added hurriedly.

Sangster threw his cigarette end firewards.

“It’s a rotten business,” he said heavily.  In his own heart he agreed with Costin; he believed that it was Cynthia’s death that was breaking Jimmy’s heart.  He would have given ten years of his life to have been able to believe that it was something else quite different.

“Well, I’ll look in again in the morning,” he said.  “And if you want me, send round, of course.”