"You're not in the way--I'd rather you stayed. You may as well hear what we're talking about. Jimmy's brother is coming home, and--and, you see, he doesn't know that I--that we----" "I've asked her to come back to me--at any rate, for a time," Jimmy interrupted valiantly. "I know I don't deserve it, but it would make such a deuce of a difference if she would--you know what Horatio is--I--I'd give anything to prevent him knowing what a mess I've made of everything," he added boyishly. They were both looking at Gladys now, Jimmy and Christine, and for a moment she stood irresolute, then she turned to Jimmy's wife. "Well, what are you going to do?" she said, and her usually blunt voice was quite gentle. Christine moved closer to her friend. "Oh, what do you think I ought to do?" she appealed in a whisper. Gladys glanced across at Jimmy Challoner; he looked miserable enough; at the sight of his thin face and worried eyes she softened towards him; she took Christine's hand. "I think you ought to go," she said. Jimmy turned away; he stood staring down into the fire; he felt somehow as if they were both taking a mean advantage of Christine; he felt as if he had tried to force her hand; he was sure she did not wish to come back to him, but he was sure, too, that because in her heart she thought it her duty to do so, he would not return to London alone that night. Nobody spoke for a moment; Jimmy was afraid to look round, then Christine said slowly: "Very well, what train are we to go by?" Her voice sounded a little expressionless; Jimmy could not look at her. "Any train you like," he said jerkily. "My time is yours--anything you want . . . you have only to say what you would like to do." A few weeks ago she would have been so happy to hear him speak like that, but now the words seemed to pass her by. "We may as well have dinner first, and go by a fast train," she said. "I hate slow trains. Will you--will you pack some things for me?" She looked at Gladys. "Of course." Gladys turned to the door, and Christine followed her, leaving Jimmy alone. He did not move; he stood staring down at the cheery fire, his elbow resting on the mantleshelf. He wished now that he had not asked this of his wife; he wished he had braved the situation out and received the full vent of the Great Horatio's wrath alone. Christine would think less of him than ever for being the first to make overtures of peace; he could have kicked himself as he stood there. Kettering loomed in the background of his mind with hateful persistence; Kettering had looked at Christine as if--as if---- Jimmy roused himself with a sigh; it was a rotten world--a damned rotten world. Upstairs Gladys was packing a suit-case for Christine, and talking about every conceivable subject under the sun except Jimmy. Christine sat on the side of the bed, her hands folded in her lap. She took no interest in the proceedings, she hardly seemed to be listening to her friend's chatter.