"Well, I suppose it's good-bye, then," she said heavily; her voice dragged a little. She picked up her gloves and a silver chain-bag which she had thrown down on the table; she turned towards the door. "Good-bye, Jimmy." Jimmy Challoner did not answer; he could not trust his voice. He walked past her and put his fingers on the door handle to open it for her; he was very white, and his eyes were fierce. Cynthia stood still for an instant; she was quite close to him now. "Good-bye," she said again faintly. He tried to answer, but could not find his voice; their eyes met, and the next moment she was in his arms. He never knew how it happened; never knew if he made the first move towards her, or she to him; but he held her fast, kissing her as he had never kissed little Christine--her eyes, her hair, her warm, tremulous lips. "You do love me, then, after all?" she whispered. Jimmy let her go; he fell back against the door, hiding his eyes. "You know I do," he said hoarsely. He hated himself for his momentary weakness; he could not bear to look at her; when she had gone, he sat down in the big arm-chair and hid his face in his hands. His pulses were racing; his head felt on fire. The day after to-morrow he was to marry Christine. He had given his promise to her, and he knew that it was too late to draw back--too late to break her heart. And yet there was only one woman in all the world whom he loved, and whom he wanted--the woman from whom he had just parted; the woman who was even then driving away down the street with a little triumphant smile on her carefully reddened lips. CHAPTER XI HUSBAND AND WIFE ". . . to love, cherish, and to obey till death us do part." Christine raised her soft brown eyes shyly and looked at Jimmy Challoner. A ray of sunlight, piercing the stained glass window above the altar, fell on her face and slim figure; her voice was quite clear and steady, though a little sad perhaps, as she slowly repeated the words after the rather bored-looking clergyman. Jimmy had insisted on being married in a parish where neither of them was known; he had got a special licence, and there was nobody in the church but the verger and Sangster, and a deaf uncle of Christine's, who thought the whole affair a great bother, and who had looked up a train to catch back home the very moment that Christine should have safely passed out of his keeping into her husband's. He bade them "good-bye" in the vestry; he kissed Christine rather awkwardly, and said that he hoped she would be happy; his voice seemed to imply a doubt. He shook hands with Jimmy and called him a lucky dog; he spoke like a man who hardly realises what he is saying; he shook hands with Sangster and hurried away. They heard him creaking down the aisle of the church, and the following slam of the heavy door behind him; there was a little awkward silence.