"Christine . . ." It was Jimmy.

She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe. She pressed her hands over her lips, as if afraid that he would hear the quick beating of her frightened heart.

"Christine . . ." He waited a moment, then she heard him saying something under his breath impatiently; another second, and he turned away to the sitting-room opposite.

She heard him moving about there for some time; she looked at the clock. Almost too late to go now; a fever of impatience consumed her.

If only he had not come back--if only she had gone sooner.

She turned out the light, and softly, an inch at a time, opened the door. There was a light burning in the sitting-room; there was a smell of cigarette smoke. Jimmy was still there.

She wondered if she could get away without him hearing her; she tiptoed back into the room, took up her bag from the bed, and crept again to the door.

The floor seemed to creak at every step. Half a dozen times she stopped, frightened; then suddenly the half-closed door of the sitting-room opposite opened, and Jimmy came out.

He was in evening-dress; he still wore a loose overcoat.

For a moment he stared at her blankly. The lights had been lowered a little in the corridor, and at first he was not sure if it was she.

Then he strode across to her and caught her by the wrist in a not very gentle grip.

"Where are you going?" he asked roughly.

She cowered back from him against the wall; her face was white, but her eyes blazed at him in pa.s.sionate defiance.

"I am going away. Let me go. I am never coming back any more."

He half led, half dragged her into the sitting-room; he put his back to the door, and stood looking at her, white-faced, silent.

The breath was tearing from his throat; he seemed afraid to trust himself to speak.

Presently:

"Why?" he asked hoa.r.s.ely.

Christine was standing against the table, one trembling hand resting on it; she was afraid of him and of the white pa.s.sion in his face, but she faced him bravely.

"I am never going to live with you any more. I--I wish I had never seen you."

Even her voice seemed to have changed; he realized it dully, and the knowledge added to his anger. She no longer spoke in the half-trembling childish way he remembered; there was something more grown-up and womanly about her.

"Don't be a little fool," he said roughly. "What is the matter? What have I done now? I'm sick to death of these scenes and heroics; for G.o.d's sake try and behave like a rational woman. Do you want the whole hotel to know that we've quarrelled?"

"They know already," she told him fiercely.

He came nearer to her.

"Take off your hat and coat, Christine, and don't be absurd. Why, we've only been married a little more than a week." His voice was quieter and more gentle. "What's the matter? Let's sit down and talk things over quietly. I've something to tell you. I wanted to see you to-night; I came to your door just now."

"I know--I heard you."

"Very well; what's it all about? What have I done to upset you like this?"

She shut her eyes for a moment. When he spoke to her so kindly it almost broke her heart; it brought back so vividly the boy sweetheart whom she had never really forgotten. And yet this Jimmy was not the Jimmy she had known in those happy days, This Jimmy only looked at her with the same eyes; in reality he was another man--a stranger whom she feared and almost hated.

He took her hand.

"Christine--are you ill?"

She opened her eyes; they were blazing.

The touch of his fingers on hers seemed to drive her mad.

"Yes," she said shrilly, "I am--ill because of you and your lies, and your hateful deception; ill because you've broken my heart and ruined my life. You swore to me that you'd never see Cynthia Farrow again.

You swore to me that it was all over and done with; and now--now----"

"Yes--now," said Jimmy; his voice was hoa.r.s.e and strained. "Yes--and now," he said again, as she did not answer.

She wrenched herself free.

"You've been with her this evening. You've left me alone here all these hours to be with her. I don't count at all in your life. I don't know why you married me, unless it was to--to pay her out. I wish I'd never seen you. I wish I'd died before I ever married you. I wish--oh, I wish I could die now," she ended in a broken whisper.

Jimmy had fallen back a step; he was no longer looking at her. There was a curious expression of shocked horror in his, eyes as they stared past his wife into the silent room.

Presently:

"She's dead," he said hoa.r.s.ely. "Cynthia Farrow is dead."

CHAPTER XIV

BITTERNESS

"Dead!" Christine echoed Jimmy's hoa.r.s.e word in a dull voice, not understanding. "Dead!" she said again blankly.

He moved away from the door; he dropped into a chair and hid his face in his hands.

There was a moment of absolute silence.

Christine stared at Jimmy's bowed head with dull eyes.

She was trying to force her brain to work, but she could not; she was only conscious of a faint sort of curiosity as to whether Jimmy were lying to her; but somehow he did not look as if he were. She tried to speak to him, but no words would come.

Suddenly he raised his head; he was very pale. "Well?" he said defiantly.

His eyes were hard and full of hurt; hurt because of another woman, Christine told herself, in furious pain; hurt because the woman he had really and truly loved had gone out of his life for ever.

She tried to say that she was sorry, but the words seemed to choke her--she was not sorry; she was glad. She was pa.s.sionately glad that the beautiful woman whom she had at first so ardently admired was now only a name between them.