her again, and wipe the
hard bitterness from little Christine's brown eyes.

It was pouring with rain when they left the restaurant; the bright
sunshine of morning had utterly gone, the street was dripping, the
pavements saturated.

"We shall have to go home, I suppose," said Jimmy lugubriously.

"Home?" Christine looked up at him. "Do you mean to the hotel?" she
asked.

"I suppose so, unless you would care to come to my rooms," said Jimmy,
flushing a little. "There's sure to be a fire there, and--and it's
pretty comfortable."

For a moment she hesitated, and his heart-beats quickened a little,
hoping she would agree to the suggestion; but the next moment she shook
her head.

"I don't care to--thank you. I will go back to the hotel."

Jimmy hailed a taxi. He looked moody and despondent once more. They
drove away in silence.

Presently--

"I will go to your rooms if--if you will answer me one thing," said
Christine abruptly.

Jimmy stared. The colour ran into his pale face.

"I will answer anything you like to ask me--you know I will."

"Did--did Miss Farrow ever go to your rooms?"

She asked the question tremblingly; she could not look at him. With a
sudden movement Jimmy dropped his face in his hands; the hot blood
seemed to scorch him; this sudden mention of a name he had never wished
to hear again was almost unbearable.

"Yes," he said; "she did." He looked up. "Christine--don't condemn me
like that," he broke out agitatedly. He saw the cold disdain in her
averted face.

"She lived such a different life from anything you can possibly
imagine. It's--well--it's like being in another world. Women on the
stage think nothing of--of--the free-and-easy sort of thing. She used
to come to my rooms to tea. She used to bring her friends in after the
theatre--after rehearsals." He leaned over as if to take her hand,
then drew his own away again. "I--I ask you to come now
because--because I thought you would take away all the memories I want
to forget. Can't you ever forget too? Can't you ever try and forgive
me? It's--it's--awful to think that we may have to live together all
our lives and that you'll never look at me again as you used to--never
be glad to see me, never want me to touch you." His voice broke; he
bit his lip till it bled.

Christine clasped her hands hard in her lap.

"It was awful to me too--once," she said dully. "Awful to know that
you didn't love me when I was so