Gladys Leighton came a little closer to him; she laid her hand on his arm.

"You don't mean that; you're only saying it because--because----" She broke off with an impatient gesture. "Oh!" she said exasperatedly, "what is the use of loving a person if you do not want them to be happy--if you cannot sacrifice yourself a little for them."

Kettering looked at her curiously. He had never taken much notice of her before; he had thought her a very ordinary type; he was struck by the sudden energy and pa.s.sion in her voice.

"She is not happy now, at all events," he said grimly.

She turned away and fidgeted with the wheel of the car.

"She could not very well be more unhappy than she is now," he said again bitterly.

"She would be more unhappy if she knew she had done something to be ashamed of--something she had got to hide."

He raised his eyes.

"Are you holding a brief for Challoner?" he asked.

She frowned a little.

"You know I am not; I never thought he was good enough for her. Even years ago as a boy he was utterly selfish; but--but Christine loved him then; she thought there was n.o.body in all the world like him; she adored him."

He winced. "And now?" he asked shortly.

She did not answer for a moment; she stood looking away from him.

"There was a letter this morning," she said tonelessly. "Jimmy is ill, and they asked her to go to him."

"Well!"

"She would not go. She told me she was going to Heston with you instead."

The silence fell again. Kettering's eyes were shining; there was a sort of shamed triumph about his big person.

Gladys turned to him impatiently.

"Are you looking glad? Oh, I think I should kill you if I saw you looking glad," she said quickly. "I only told you that so that you might see how much she is under your influence already; so that you can save her from herself. . . . She's so little and weak--and now that she is unhappy, it's just the time when she might do something she would be sorry for all her life--when she might----"

"What are you two talking about?" Christine demanded from the doorway.

She came down the steps and stood between them; she looked at Kettering. "I thought you had gone," she said, surprised.

"No; I--Miss Leighton and I have been discussing the higher ethics," he said dryly. He held his hand to Gladys. "Well, good-bye," he said; there was a little emphasis on the last word.

She just touched his fingers.

"Good-bye." She put her arm round Christine; there was something defensive in her whole att.i.tude.

Kettering got into the car; he did not look at Christine again. He started the engine; presently he was driving slowly away.

"Have you two been quarreling?" Christine asked. There was a touch of vexation in her voice; her eyes were straining through the darkness towards the gate.

Gladys laughed.

"Quarrelling! Why ever should I quarrel with Mr. Kettering? I've hardly spoken half a dozen words to him in all my life."

"You seemed to have a great deal to say to him, all the same,"

Christine protested, rather shortly.

They went back to the house together.

It was during dinner that night that Gladys deliberately led the conversation round to Jimmy again.

They had nearly finished the unpretentious little meal; it had pa.s.sed almost silently. Christine looked pale and preoccupied. Gladys was worried and anxious.

A dozen times during the past few days she had tried to decide whether she ought to write to Jimmy or not. Her sharp eyes had seen from the very first the way things were going with regard to Kettering, and she was afraid of the responsibility. If anything happened--if Christine chose to doubly wreck her life--afterwards they might all blame her; she knew that.

She was fond of Christine, too. And though she had never approved of Jimmy, she would have done a great deal to see them happy together.

It was for that reason that she now spoke of him.

"When are you going to London, Chris?"

Christine looked up; she flushed.

"Going to London! I am not going. . . . I never want to go there any more."

Gladys made no comment; she had heard the little quiver in the younger girl's voice.

Presently:

"I suppose you think I ought to go to Jimmy," Christine broke out vehemently. "I suppose you are hinting that it is my duty to go. You don't know what you are talking about; you don't understand that he cares nothing about me--that he would be glad if I were dead and out of the way. He only wants his freedom; he never really wished to marry me."

"It isn't as bad as that. I am sure he----"

"You don't know anything about him. You don't know what I went through during those hateful weeks before--before I came here. I don't care if I never see him again; he has never troubled about me. It's my turn now; I am going to show him that he isn't the only man in the world."

Gladys had never heard Christine talk like this before; she was frightened at the recklessness of her voice. She broke in quickly:

"I won't listen if you're going to say such things. Jimmy is your husband, and you loved him once, no matter what you may do now. You loved him very dearly once."

Christine laughed.

"I've got over that. He wasn't worth breaking my heart about. I was just a poor little fool in those days, who didn't know that a man never cares for a woman if he is too sure of her. Oh, if I could only have my time over again, I'd treat him so differently--I'd never let him how how much I cared."

Her voice had momentarily fallen back into its old wistfulness. There were tears in her eyes, but she brushed them quickly away.

"Don't talk about him; I don't want to talk about him."

But Gladys persisted.