ply came. Mrs. Challoner would be
pleased to see Mr. Sangster; would he go up to her sitting-room.

Sangster obeyed reluctantly; he dreaded tears; he dreaded to see grief
and disillusionment in the beautiful eyes which he could only remember
as happy and trusting. He waited nervously till she came to him. He
looked round the room apprehensively; it had an empty, unlived-in look
about it, though there were various possessions of Jimmy's scattered
about it--a pipe, newspapers, and a large box of cigarettes. There was
a small pair of Christine's slippers, too, with high heels. Sangster
looked at them with eyes which he did not know were tender. They
seemed to appeal to him somehow; there was such a solitary look about
them, standing there in a corner by themselves.

Then the door opened and she came in; a little pale ghost of the girl
whom he had last seen, with quivering lips that tried to smile, and
shadows beneath her eyes.

It was an effort to Sangster to greet her as if he were unconscious of
the tragedy in her face; he took her hand in a close grip.

"I am so glad you allowed me to come up; I didn't want to intrude; I
asked for Jimmy, but they told me he was out, and so I wondered if you
would see me--just for a moment."

"I am very glad you came; I"--she bit her lip--"I don't think Jimmy
will be back to lunch," she said.

"Capital!" Sangster tried to speak naturally; he laughed. "Then will
you come out to lunch with me? Jimmy won't mind, and----"

"Oh, no, Jimmy won't mind." There was such bitterness in her voice
that for a moment it shocked him into silence; she looked at him with
burning eyes. "Jimmy wouldn't mind no matter what I did," she said,
almost as if the words were forced from her against her will. "Oh, Mr.
Sangster, why did you let him marry me?--you must have known. Jimmy
doesn't care any more for me than--than you do."

There was a tragic pause. She did not cry; she just looked at him with
broken-hearted eyes.

"Oh, my dear; don't--don't say that," said Sangster in distress.

He took her hand and held it clumsily between his own. Her words had
been like a reproach. Was he to blame? he asked himself remorsefully;
and yet--what could he have done? Christine would not have believed
him had he tried to tell her.

"It's true," she said dully. "It's true . . . and now I haven't got
anybody in all the world."

Sangster did not know what to answer. He broke out awkwardly that