ves and a silver chain-bag
which she had thrown down on the table; she turned towards the door.
"Good-bye, Jimmy."

Jimmy Challoner did not answer; he could not trust his voice. He
walked past her and put his fingers on the door handle to open it for
her; he was very white, and his eyes were fierce.

Cynthia stood still for an instant; she was quite close to him now.
"Good-bye," she said again faintly.

He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; their eyes met, and
the next moment she was in his arms.

He never knew how it happened; never knew if he made the first move
towards her, or she to him; but he held her fast, kissing her as he had
never kissed little Christine--her eyes, her hair, her warm, tremulous
lips.

"You do love me, then, after all?" she whispered.

Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, hiding his eyes.

"You know I do," he said hoarsely.

He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he could not bear to look
at her; when she had gone, he sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his
face in his hands.

His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire.

The day after to-morrow he was to marry Christine. He had given his
promise to her, and he knew that it was too late to draw back--too late
to break her heart. And yet there was only one woman in all the world
whom he loved, and whom he wanted--the woman from whom he had just
parted; the woman who was even then driving away down the street with a
little triumphant smile on her carefully reddened lips.

CHAPTER XI

HUSBAND AND WIFE

". . . to love, cherish, and to obey till death us do part."

Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and looked at Jimmy
Challoner.

A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained glass window above the altar,
fell on her face and slim figure; her voice was quite clear and steady,
though a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words after the
rather bored-looking clergyman.

Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish where neither of them
was known; he had got a special licence, and there was nobody in the
church but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of Christine's,
who thought the whole affair a great bother, and who had looked up a
train to catch back home the very moment that Christine should have
safely passed out of his keeping into her husband's.

He bade them "good-bye" in the vestry; he kissed Christine rather
awkwardly, and said that he hoped she would be h