-away from the man
whose presence had only tortured her during those last few days; she
was at home--at Upton House, and Kettering was there whenever she
wanted him. She hoped he would come in the morning again; that he
would come quite early. After breakfast she wandered about the house
restlessly, listening for the sound of his car in the drive outside;
but the morning dragged away and he did not come.

Christine ate no lunch; her head ached, she said pettishly when Gladys
questioned her. No, she did not want to go out; there was nowhere to
go.

And all the time her eyes kept turning to the window again and again
restlessly.

Gladys did not know what to do; she was hoping and praying in her heart
that Kettering would do as she had asked him, and stay away. What was
the good of him coming again? What was the good of him making himself
indispensable to Christine? The day passed wretchedly. Once she found
Christine huddled up on the sofa crying; she was so miserable, she
sobbed; nobody cared for her; she was so lonely, and she wanted her
mother.

Gladys did all she could to comfort her, but all the time she was
painfully conscious of the fact that had Kettering walked into the room
just then there would have been no more tears.

Sometimes she thought that it only served Jimmy Challoner right;
sometimes she told herself that this was his punishment--that Fate was
fighting him with his own weapons, paying him back in his own coin; but
she knew such thoughts were mere foolishness.

He and Christine were married, no matter how strongly they might resent
it. The only thing left to them was to make the best they could of
life.

She sat with Christine that night till the girl was asleep. She was
not very much Christine's senior in years, but she felt somehow old and
careworn as she sat there in the silent room and listened to the girl's
soft breathing.

She got up and went over to stand beside her.

So young, such a child, it seemed impossible that she was already a
wife, this girl lying there with her soft hair falling all about her.

Gladys sighed and walked over to the window. It must be a great thing
to be loved, she thought rather sadly; nobody had ever loved her; no
man had ever looked at her as Kettering looked at little
Christine. . . . She opened the window and looked out into the
darkness.

It was a mild, damp night. Grey mist veiled the garden and shut out
the stars; everything was very si