I've never cared for anyone
as I do for you--all that--that other----"

"I know--I know," she was thinking remorsefully of the days when
Kettering had seemed to come before Jimmy in her heart; of the days
when she had been unhappy because he stayed away. And now there was a
deep thankfulness in her heart that he himself had brought things to a
climax. She had been so pleased to see him when he called at the hotel
that morning. She had never dreamed that sheer longing had driven him
to London to see her, or that he had made Gladys the excuse. She had
readily agreed to a run down to Upton House to see Gladys. She had
started off with him quite happily and unsuspectingly. And then--even
now it sent a little shiver of dread through her to think of the way he
had spoken--the way he had pleaded with her--looked at her.

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. Passionate 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 God!"

He looked at her with passionate 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.

J