"Jimmy." She whispered his name with a sort of fear. "Jimmy--what--what is it? Oh, you are frightening me. I thought you would be so glad--so glad." She caught the limp hand hanging against his side; she laid her soft cheek to it. Jimmy Challoner tore himself free with a sort of rage. "It's too late--too late," he said hoarsely. "Too--late!" She stared at him, not understanding. "What--what do you mean? That--that you can't forgive me; that--that you're so angry that--that----" He swung round, white-faced and quivering. "It's too late," he said again hopelessly. "I'm engaged to be married. I--oh, why did you ever send me away?" he broke out in anguish. Her face had paled, but she was still far enough from understanding. "Engaged to be married--you! To whom, Jimmy?" He answered her in a voice of stifled rage. "It's your doing--all your fault. You nearly drove me mad when you sent me away, and I--I----" There was a long pause. "I told you that I met some friends in the theatre that night when you . . . well, I'm engaged to her--to Christine. I've known her all my life. I--I was utterly wretched . . . I asked her to marry me. We're--we're going to be married the day after to-morrow." Twice she tried to speak, but no words would come. She was as white now as the lilies she wore; her eyes had a stunned, incredulous look in them. She had never even remotely dreamed of this; it was like some crude nightmare. . . . Jimmy engaged! Jimmy who had sworn a thousand times never to love another woman; Jimmy who had been heart-broken when she sent him away. She broke out in vehement protest: "Oh, no--no!" "It's true," said Jimmy obstinately. "It's true." For the moment he was hardly conscious of any feeling except a sort of shock. It had never once crossed his mind that she would come back to him; he could not believe even now that she was in earnest; he found himself remembering that night in her dressing-room at the theatre when she had lied to him, and pretended, and deceived him. Perhaps even this was all part of the play-acting; perhaps she was just trying to win him back again, to make a fool of him afresh. Cynthia broke out again. "Well, this girl must be told; she can't care for you. You say you haven't seen her for years. It's--it's absurd!" She took a step towards him. "You must tell her, Jimmy; you must explain to her. She . . . surely there is such a thing as buying her off." The vulgarity of the expression made him wince; he thought of Christine with a sort of shame. She would be the last girl in the world, he knew, to wish to hold him to a promise which he was unwilling to fulfil; he thought of her pale face and wistful brown eyes, and he broke out strenuously: