Jimmy growled something unintelligible. He threw the freshly lit cigarette absently into the fireplace instead of the spent match, swore under his breath, and grabbed it back again. Suddenly he sprang to his feet. "I've made the devil's own mess of it all," he said violently. Sangster made no comment; he put down his pen, pushed his chair back a little and waited. Jimmy blew an agitated puff of smoke into the air and blurted out again: "She says she won't stay with me; she says----" He threw out his hands agitatedly. "It wasn't my fault; I swear to you that it wasn't my fault, Sangster. Things were going swimmingly, and then the letter came--and that finished it." He was incoherent--stammering; but Sangster seemed to understand. "Cynthia Farrow?" he asked briefly. "Yes. The letter was sent on from the hotel where Christine had been staying with her mother. It had been delayed two days, as the people didn't know where she was." He swallowed hard, as if choking back a bitter memory. "It came about an hour after we left you." "On your wedding day?" Sangster was flushed now; his eyes looked very distressed. Jimmy turned away. "Yes," he said in a stifled voice. "If I'd only seen the accursed thing--but I didn't; she opened it, and then----" There was a long pause before he went on again jerkily. "I did my best--even then--but she wouldn't believe me; she doesn't believe me now. I swore that I'd never see Cynthia again; I swore that I'd do anything in the whole world she wanted----" "Except the one thing which you cannot do, I suppose," Sangster interposed quietly. "What do you mean?" "Love her," said Sangster. "That's what I mean." Jimmy tried to laugh; It was a miserable failure. "She's hardly spoken to me since," he went on, after a moment, wretchedly. "I've--oh, I've had a devil of a time these last two days, I can tell you. I can't get her to come out with me--she hardly leaves her room; she just cries and cries," he added with a sort of weariness. "Just keeps on saying she wants her mother--she wants her mother." "Poor little girl." "Yes--that's how I feel," said Jimmy. "It's--it's perfectly rotten, isn't it? And she looks so ill, too. . . . What did you say?" "I didn't say anything." "Well, then, I wish to God you would," said Jimmy with sudden rage. "I'm about fed-up with life, I can tell you----" He broke off. "Oh, I don't mean that; but I'm worried to death. I--what the devil _can_ I do?" he asked helplessly. Sangster did not know how to answer; he sat staring down at the worn toes of his carpet slippers and thinking of Christine. She was such a child, and she loved Jimmy so much. It made his heart ache to think of the shy happiness he had always read in her eyes whenever she looked at Jimmy.