Christine flushed scarlet.

“Whatever makes you ask me that?”

“Your eyes are red,” he told her gently.

She looked up at him with resentment, and suddenly the tears came again.  Kettering bit his lip hard.  He did not speak for some time.

“I’ve got a headache,” Christine said at last with an effort.  “I—­oh, I know it’s silly.  Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing.”  His voice dragged a little; he kept his eyes steadily before him.

“I thought perhaps something had happened—­that you had had bad news,” he said presently.  “If—­if there is anything I can do to help you, you know—­you know I——­”

“There isn’t anything the matter,” she interrupted with a rush.  She was terrified lest he should guess that her tears were because of Jimmy; she had a horror nowadays that everyone would know that she cared for a man who cared nothing for her; she brushed the tears away determinedly; she set herself to talk and smile.

They had tea at Heston, in the little square parlour of a country inn where the floor was only polished boards, and where long wooden trestles ran on two sides of the room.

“It looks rather thick,” Kettering said ruefully, standing looking down at the plate of bread and butter.  “I hope you don’t mind; this is the best place in the village.”

Christine laughed.

“It’s like what we used to have at school, and I’m hungry.”

She looked up at him with dancing eyes; she had quite forgotten her sorrow of the morning.  Somehow this man’s presence always cheered her and took her out of herself.  She poured tea for him, and laughed and chatted away merrily.

Afterwards they sat over the fire and talked.

Christine said she could see faces in the red coals; she painted them out to Kettering.

He had to stoop forward to see what she indicated; for a moment their heads were very close together; it was Christine who drew back sharply.

“Oughtn’t we to be going home?” she asked with sudden nervousness.

She rose to her feet and went over to the window; the sunshine had gone, and the country road was grey and shadowy.  Kettering’s big car stood at the kerb.  After a moment he followed her to the window; he was a little pale, his eyes seemed to avoid hers.

“I am quite ready when you are,” he said.

She was fastening her veil over her hat; her fingers shook a little as she tied the bow.

Kettering had gone to pay for the tea; she stood looking after him with dawning apprehension in her eyes.

He was a fine enough man; there was something about him that gave one such a feeling of safety—­of security.  She could not imagine that he would ever deliberately set himself to hurt a woman, as—­as Jimmy had.  She went out to the car and stood waiting for him.

“All that tea for one and threepence!” he said, laughing, when he joined her.  “Wonderful, isn’t it?”