"Oh, Jimmy, I've got no one now--no one." Her voice came back to him,
a mournful echo; and his own husky answer:

"You've got me, Christine!"

How could he go back on that--how could he add to her weight of sorrow?

"She's got nobody but me in all the world," he said simply; he was
looking at Cynthia now, as if he found it easier. "She has just lost
her mother, and she's the loneliest little thing----" he stopped
jaggedly.

For a moment she did not answer; she had stopped sobbing; she was
carefully wiping her eyes; she got up and walked over to the glass
above the mantelshelf; she looked at herself anxiously.

"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.