f her hand than Cynthia had in the whole of her
beautiful body.

The thought of Christine recalled Sangster's words.

Sangster was a fool; he did not know what he was talking about.
Christine and he had been sweethearts as children certainly, but that
anything more could ever exist between them was absurd.

But he began to remember the little flush that always crept into
Christine's face when she saw him, the expression of her beautiful
eyes; and the memory gave him back some of his lost self-confidence.
Christine liked him, at all events; Christine would never have behaved
as Cynthia had done . . . Christine. . . . Jimmy Challoner hailed a
passing taxi, and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and her
mother were staying.

His desire for sympathy drove him there; his desire to be with someone
who liked his company. He was bruised all over by the treatment he had
received from Cynthia Farrow; he wanted balm poured on his wounds.

The hall porter told him that Mrs. Wyatt was out, but that he thought
the young lady----

"It's Miss Wyatt I wish to see," said Jimmy impatiently.

After a moment he was asked to come upstairs. He knew the Wyatts had a
private sitting-room. Christine was there by the fire when he entered.

"Jimmy," she said eagerly.

Jimmy Challoner went forward with outstretched hand.

"I hope you don't mind my coming again so soon; but I was
bored--thoroughly fed-up," he explained stumblingly.

Christine looked radiant. She had not yet learned to disguise her true
feelings. Jimmy was still holding her hand; she tried gently to free
it.

"Don't--don't take it away," said Jimmy. The double dose of brandy and
his own agitation had excited him; he drew her over to the fire with
him; he hardly knew what he was doing.

Suddenly: "Will you marry me, Christine?" he said.

There was a sharp silence.

Christine's little face had grown as white as death; her soft brown
eyes were almost tragic.

"Marry you!" She echoed his words in a whisper. "Marry you," she said
again. "Oh, Jimmy!" She caught her breath in something like a sob.
"But--but you don't love me," she said in a pitiful whisper.

Jimmy lost his head.

"I do love you," he declared. "I love you most awfully . . . Say yes,
Christine--say yes. We'll be ever so happy, you and I; we always got
on rippingly, didn't we?"

Nobody had ever made love to Christine before, since the days when
Jimmy Challoner had chased her ro