Suddenly she broke into a remark Gladys was making: "You really think I am doing the right thing, Gladys?" Gladys sat back on her heels and let a little silk frock she had been folding fall to the floor. She looked at the younger girl with affectionate anxiety. "Yes, I do," she said seriously. "Things would never have got any better as they were. It's perfectly true, in my opinion, that if you don't see a person for a long time you don't care whether you ever see him again or not, and--and I should hate you and Jimmy to--to have a final separation, no matter what I've said, and no matter what a selfish pig he is." Christine smiled faintly. "He can't _help_ not caring for me," she said. "No, but he can help having married you," Gladys retorted energetically. "Don't think I'm sympathising with him. I assure you I'm not. I hope he'll get paid out no end for what he's done, and the way he's treated you. But--but all the same, I think you ought to go back to him." Christine flushed. "I hate the thought of it," she said with sudden passion. "I shall never forget those days in London. I tried to pretend that everything was all right when anybody was there, just so that the servants should not see, but they all did, I know, and they were sorry for me. Oh, I feel as if I could kill myself when I look back on it all. To think I let him know how much I cared, and all the time--all the time he wouldn't have minded if he'd never seen me again. All the time he was longing for--for that other woman. I know it's horrid to talk like that about her, but--but she's dead, and--and----" she broke off with a shuddering little sigh. "Things will come all right--you see," said Gladys wisely. She picked up Christine's frock and carefully folded it. "Give him a chance, Christine; I don't hold a brief for him, but, my word! it would be rotten if the Great Horatio found out the truth and cut Jimmy off with a shilling, wouldn't it? Of course, _really_ it would serve him right, but one can't very well tell him so." She shut the lid of the case, and rose to her feet. "There, I think that's all. It must be nearly dinner time." But Christine did not move. "I wish you would come with us," she said tremblingly. "Why can't you come with us? I shouldn't mind half so much if you were there." Gladys glanced at her and away again. "Now you're talking sheer rubbish," she said lightly. "You remind me of that absurd play, _The Chinese Honeymoon_, when the bride took her bridesmaids with her." She laughed; she took Christine's hand and dragged her to her feet. "You might smile a little," she protested. "Don't let Jimmy think you're afraid of him." "I _am_ afraid. I don't want to go." Suddenly she began to cry. Gladys's kind eyes grew anxious, she stood silent for a moment. "I'm ever so much happier here," Christine went on. "I hate London; I hate the horrid hotels. I'd much rather be here with you and----" she broke off.