"Well?"
"Where the deuce are you going?" Jimmy demanded irritably. "Nice sort
of pal, you are, to go off and leave a chap when he's sick."
Sangster did not make the obvious reply; he came back, shutting the
door behind him. Jimmy was leaning back in his chair now; his face was
nearly as red as the dressing-gown he wore, but he shivered violently
from time to time. There was a little silence, then he opened his eyes
and smiled rather apologetically.
"Sorry to be so dull. I haven't slept for a week."
It would have been nearer the truth to say that he had hardly closed
his eyes since the night of Cynthia Farrow's death, but he knew that if
he said that Sangster would at once bark up the wrong tree, and
conclude that he was fretting for her--breaking his heart for her,
whereas he was doing nothing of the kind.
It was Christine, and not Cynthia, who was on his mind day and night,
night and day; Christine for whose sake he reproached himself so
bitterly and could get no rest. She was so young--such a child.
Every day he found himself remembering some new little incident about
her; every day some little jewel from the past slipped out of the mists
of forgetfulness and looked at him with sad eyes as if to ask:
"Have you forgotten me? Don't you remember----"
He could not help thinking of Christine's mother too; he had been fond
of her--she had mothered him so much in the old days; he wondered if
she knew how he had repaid all her kindness; what sort of a hash he had
made of life for poor little Christine.
Pages:
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156
157
158
159
160
161
162
163
164
165
166
167
168
169
170
171
172
173