He attempted no defence; he stood there miserable and silent.

“You can tell him what you like,” said Christine, after a moment.  “I don’t care in the very least.”

“I know you don’t.  I quite realise that; but—­but if, just for the sake of appearances, you felt you could be sufficiently forgiving to—­to come back to me, just—­just for a little while, I mean,” he added with an embarrassed rush.  “I—­I wouldn’t bother you.  I—­I’d let you do just as you liked.  I wouldn’t ask anything.  I—­I——­”

Christine laughed.

“You are inviting me to have a second honeymoon, in fact.  Is that it?” she asked bitterly.  “Thank you very much.  I enjoyed the first so tremendously that, of course, it is only natural you should think I must be anxious to repeat the experiment.”

Jimmy flushed to the roots of his hair.

“I deserve everything you can say.  I haven’t any excuse to offer; and I know you’ll never believe it if I were to tell you that—­that when Cynthia——­”

She put up her hands to her eyes with a little shudder.

“I don’t want to hear anything about her; I don’t ever want to hear her name again.”

“I’m sorry, dear.”  The word of endearment slipped out unconsciously.  Christine’s little figure quivered; suddenly she began to sob.

She wanted someone to be kind to her so badly.  The one little word of endearment was like a ray of sunshine touching the hard bitterness of her heart, melting it, breaking her down.

“Christine!” said Jimmy in a choked voice.

He went over to her.  He put an arm round her, drawing her nearer to the fire.  He made her sit in the arm-chair, and he knelt beside her, holding her hand.  He wanted to kiss her, wanted to say all the many passionate words of remorse that rose to his lips, but somehow he was afraid.  He was not sure of her yet.  He was afraid of startling her, of driving her back into cold antagonism and suspicion.

Presently she stopped sobbing; she freed her hand and wiped away the tears.

“It was silly to cry,” she said jerkily.  “There was nothing to cry for.”  She was ashamed that she had broken down; angry that the cause of her grief had been that one little word of endearment spoken by Jimmy.

He rose to his feet and went to stand by the mantelshelf, staring down into the fire.

There was a long silence.

“When—­when is Horatio coming?” Christine asked him presently.

“I don’t know for certain.  The cable said Monday, but it may be later or even earlier.”

She looked at him.  His shoulders were drooping, his face turned away from her.

There was an agony of indecision in her heart.  She did not want to make things harder for him than was absolutely necessary; and yet she clung fast to her pride—­the pride that seemed to be whispering to her to refuse—­not to give in to him.  She stared into the fire, her eyes blurred still with tears.