She wished she had not come. She hated Jimmy for having persuaded her; she hated Gladys for having practically told her that it was her duty to do as he wished; she hated Jimmy afresh because now, having got her to London, he had gone off and left her.

She did not choose to believe that he had really done so because he thought she would prefer it. She felt lonely and deserted; tears welled into her eyes.

"A second honeymoon!" What a farce it all was.

It seemed an eternity before the rumble of traffic sounded again in the streets and the first grey daylight crept through the blind c.h.i.n.ks.

She wondered what Gladys was doing, what Kettering was doing, and if he knew that she had gone, and where.

She deliberately conjured the memory of his eyes and voice as he had last looked at her and spoken.

Her heart beat a little faster at the memory. She knew well enough that he loved her, and for a moment she wondered what life would be like with him to always care for her and shield her.

He was much older than Jimmy. She did not realise that perhaps his knowledge of women and the way in which they liked to be treated was the result of a long apprenticeship during which he had had time to overcome the impulsive, headlong blunderings through which Jimmy was still stumbling.

She was up and dressed early; she had had her breakfast and was ready to go out when Jimmy arrived. He looked disappointed. He had made an effort and got up unusually early for him in order to be round at the hotel before Christine could possibly expect him. He asked awkwardly if she had slept well. She looked away from him as she answered impatiently:

"I never sleep well in London--I hate it."

He bit his lip.

"I'm sorry. What would you like to do this morning?"

"I'm going out."

"You mean that you don't wish me to come?"

Christine shrugged her shoulders.

"Come if you wish--certainly."

They left the hotel together. It was a bright sunny morning, and London was looking its best. Christine rushed into haphazard speech.

"Have you heard from your brother again?"

"No; I hardly expected to."

Something in the constraint of his voice made her look at him quickly.

"I suppose--I suppose he really is coming?" she said with sudden suspicion.

Jimmy flushed scarlet.

"I haven't deserved that," he said.

Christine laughed--a hard little laugh, strangely unlike her.

"I am not so sure," she answered.

They had turned into Regent Street now. A flower-girl thrust a bunch of scented violets into Jimmy's face.

"Buy a bunch for the pretty lady, sir."

Jimmy smiled involuntarily. He looked at Christine.

"May I buy them for you?" He did not wait for her answer; he gave the girl a shilling.

Christine took the flowers indifferently. She kept marvelling at herself. It seemed impossible that she was the same girl who had once walked these very streets with Jimmy, her heart beating fast with happiness. Then, had he given her a bunch of violets, she would have thrilled at the little gift; but now--she tucked them carelessly into the front of her coat. She did not notice when presently they fell out; but Jimmy had seen, and there was a curiously hurt look in his eyes.

They walked through the park. Jimmy met several people he knew; he raised his hat mechanically, making no attempt to stop and speak.

Christine looked at everyone with a sense of antagonism.

Of course all Jimmy's friends knew that once he had loved Cynthia Farrow; no doubt many of them had seen him walking with her through this very park. Something of the old jealousy touched her for a moment. She would never be able to forget, even If she lived for years and years; the memory of the woman who had wrecked her happiness would always be there between them--a shadow which it was impossible to banish.

"What about some lunch?" said Jimmy presently. He glanced at his watch. "It's half past twelve."

"I should like to ask Mr. Sangster to come with us," Christine said quickly. "Is he anywhere--anywhere where we can find him?"

"I can 'phone. He's not on the 'phone himself, but the people downstairs will take a message, if you don't mind waiting for a moment."

"I don't mind at all."

She was dreading another _tete-a-tete_ lunch with her husband. It had been in her mind all the morning to suggest that Sangster came with them. She remembered bitterly how once Jimmy had suggested bringing his friend to share their wedding breakfast. Things had strangely reversed themselves since that morning.

She waited outside the call box while Jimmy went in; she watched him through the gla.s.s door. He was standing with his hat at the back of his head, his elbow resting on the wooden box itself. He looked very young, she thought, in spite of his slightly haggard appearance.

Something in his att.i.tude reminded her of him as he had been in his Eton days--long-legged and ungainly in his short jacket. She smothered a little sigh. They had drifted such a weary way since then; too far to ever retrace their steps.

Presently he rejoined her.

"I am sorry--Sangster is not in."

"Oh!" She looked disappointed. "Is there--isn't there anyone else we can ask?"

His eyes searched her flushed face bitterly.

"You hate being alone with me as much as all that?"

She looked away.

"I only thought it would be more lively."

"You find me such dull company."

She made no reply.

"Things have changed since we were engaged, haven't they?" said Jimmy then, savagely. "You were pleased enough to be with me then; you never wanted a third."

"Things are reversed--that is all," she told him unemotionally.