he was quick--catch it if she hurried. She
threw off her slippers; she began to collect a few things together in a
handbag; her breath was coming fast--her heart was racing. She would
never come back any more--never live with him again. She had lost her
last shred of trust in him--she no longer loved him.

She was pinning on her hat with shaking fingers when someone tried the
handle of the door--someone called her name softly.

"Christine . . ." It was Jimmy.

She stood quite still, hardly daring to breathe. She pressed her hands
over her lips, as if afraid that he would hear the quick beating of her
frightened heart.

"Christine . . ." He waited a moment, then she heard him saying
something under his breath impatiently; another second, and he turned
away to the sitting-room opposite.

She heard him moving about there for some time; she looked at the
clock. Almost too late to go now; a fever of impatience consumed her.

If only he had not come back--if only she had gone sooner.

She turned out the light, and softly, an inch at a time, opened the
door. There was a light burning in the sitting-room; there was a smell
of cigarette smoke. Jimmy was still there.

She wondered if she could get away without him hearing her; she tiptoed
back into the room, took up her bag from the bed, and crept again to
the door.

The floor seemed to creak at every step. Half a dozen times she
stopped, frightened; then suddenly the half-closed door of the
sitting-room opposite opened, and Jimmy came out.

He was in evening-dress; he still wore a loose overcoat.

For a moment he stared at her blankly. The lights had been lowered a
little in the corridor, and at first he was not sure if it was she.
Then he strode across to her and caught her by the wrist in a not very
gentle grip.

"Where are you going?" he asked roughly.

She cowered back from him against the wall; her face was white, but her
eyes blazed at him in passionate defiance.

"I am going away. Let me go. I am never coming back any more."

He half led, half dragged her into the sitting-room; he put his back to
the door, and stood looking at her, white-faced, silent.

The breath was tearing from his throat; he seemed afraid to trust
himself to speak.

Presently:

"Why?" he asked hoarsely.

Christine was standing against the table, one trembling hand resting on
it; she was afraid of him and of the white passion in his face, but she
faced him bravely.