She was leaning back in her chair, looking round the room. She was as little interested in him as he had once been in her. Twenty times during the day he cursed himself for the mad infatuation that had wrecked his happiness. There was something so sweet and desirable about Christine. He would have given his soul just then for one of her old radiant smiles; for just a glimpse of the light in her eyes which had always been there when she looked at him; for the note of shy happiness in her voice when she spoke to him. The days of delirium which he had spent with Cynthia Farrow seemed like an impossible dream now, when he looked back on them: the late nights and champagne suppers, the glare of the footlights, the glamour and grease paint of the theatre. His soul sickened at the thought of the unnatural life he had led then. All he wanted now was quiet happiness--the life of domesticity for which he had once pitied himself, believing it would be his lot as Christine's husband, seemed the most desirable thing on earth; just he and she--perhaps down in the country--walking through fields and woods, perhaps at Upton House, with the crowd of old memories to draw them together 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.