He had held her hands, kissed them, he had tried to kiss her, and it had been the touch of his lips that had melted the numbness of her heart and told her that she loved Jimmy; that in spite of everything that had happened, everything he had done, he was the one and only man who would ever count in her life. Pa.s.sionate revulsion had driven her back to London. She had parted with Kettering then and there. She had told him that she never wished to see him again. She had felt as if she could never be happy till she was back with Jimmy, till she had made it up with him, till they had kissed and forgiven one another.

She told him all this now simply enough. The little Christine of happier days had come back from the land of shadowy memories to which she had retreated as she sat on Jimmy's knee and kissed him between their little broken sentences and asked him to forgive her.

"I've never, never loved anyone but you, Jimmy," she said earnestly.

"I've never really loved anyone but you."

And Jimmy said, "Thank G.o.d!"

He looked at her with pa.s.sionate thankfulness and love. He told her all that he had suffered since he went to the hotel and found she had gone. He said that she had punished him even more than she could ever have hoped.

"And that wire---- There was a wire to say that you were not coming back," he said with sudden bitter memory. She nodded.

"I sent it from Oxford. We had to change there. I meant to stay with Gladys. Poor Gladys!" she added with a little soft laugh of happiness.

"She can do without you--I can't," he said quickly.

"Really and truly?" she asked wistfully.

Jimmy drew her again into his arms. He held her soft cheek to his own.

"I've never really wanted anything or anyone badly in all my life until now," he said. "Now you're here, in my arms, and I've got the whole world."

They sat silent for a little.

"Happy?" asked Jimmy in a whisper.

Christine nodded.

"Quite--quite happy," she told him.

Presently:

"Jimmy, you won't--you won't be horrid to--to Mr. Kettering, will you?

He was kind to me--he was very kind to me when--when I was so unhappy."

"Were you very unhappy, my sweet?"

"Dreadfully."

"I'm sorry, darling--so sorry. I can't tell you."

Christine kissed him.

"You won't ever be unkind again, Jimmy?"

"Never--never! Do you believe me?"

She looked into his eyes.

"Yes."

"And you do love me?"

Christine made a little grimace.

"I'm tired of answering that question."

"I shall never be tired of asking it," he said. "And about Kettering?

We shan't ever need to see him again, shall we? So there'll be no chance for me to tell him that I should like to punch his beastly head."

Christine laughed happily, then she grew serious all at once.

"Jimmy, do you know that I somehow think he will marry Gladys----"

"_What_!" said Jimmy in amazement.

She nodded seriously.

"I believe Gladys likes him. I don't know, but I do believe she does.

And she'd make him a splendid wife."

Jimmy screwed up his nose.

"Don't let's talk about her," he said. "I'd much rather talk about my own wife----"

Christine flushed.

"Do you think I shall make a--_nice_ wife, Jimmy?" she asked in a whisper.

Jimmy caught her to his heart.

"Do I? Darling--I can't--somehow I can't answer that question. I'm not half good enough for you. I don't deserve that you----" he began brokenly.

She laid her hand on his lips.

"You're not to say rude things about my husband," she told him with pretended severity.

He kissed the hand that covered his mouth.

"And so when the Great Horatio comes----" said Christine. Jimmy gave a stifled exclamation; he dragged his watch from his pocket.

"By Jove!" he said.

"What's the matter?" she asked anxiously.

He explained:

"I had a wire from the old chap. We were to meet him at Waterloo this evening at eight-thirty; it's nearly eight now."