She was beautifully dressed; he realised in a vague sort of way that she had never looked more desirable, and yet for the life of him he could not have told what she was wearing, except that there was a big bunch of lilies tucked into the bosom of her gown.

She held out her hands to him; she was smiling adorably.

“Jimmy,” she said.

Jimmy’s first wild instinct was to rush forward and take her in his arms; then he remembered.  He backed away from her a step; he began to tremble.

“What—­what have you come here for?” he stammered.

She laughed.

“Jimmy, how rude!  You don’t look a bit pleased to see me.  You—­oh, Jimmy, I thought you’d be so happy—­so delighted.”

She came across to him now; she slipped a hand through his arm; she leaned her cheek against his coat-sleeve; the scent of the lilies she wore mounted intoxicatingly to his head.

He tried not to look at her—­he tried to stiffen his arm beneath her cheek; but his heart was thumping—­he felt as if he were choking.

There was a moment of silence, then she looked up at him with a little spark of wonderment in her eyes.

“You’re not going to forgive me—­is that it?” she asked blankly.

She moved away from him; she stood just in front of him, looking into his face with the witching eyes he knew so well.

He would not look at her; he stared steadily over her head at the door beyond; he tried to laugh.

“It’s not a question of forgiveness—­is it?” he asked jerkily.  “You—­you chucked me up.  You—­you told me a lie to get rid of me.  It—­it isn’t a question of forgiveness, do you think?”

She looked nonplussed, then she smiled.  She took Jimmy’s face between her hands, holding it so that he was forced to meet her eyes; she stood on tiptoe and softly kissed his chin.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and now there was a very genuine ring of earnestness in her voice.  “I’m more sorry than I can ever say.  Forgive me, Jimmy; I’ve been punished enough.  I—­oh, if you knew how miserable I’ve been.”

Jimmy stood like a man turned to stone; he stared at her with a sort of dread in his eyes.  There were tears in hers; one big tear fell from her long lashes, and splashed down on to the lilies she wore.

After a moment he spoke with difficulty.

“Are you . . . what are you trying to say to me?”

Her hands fell to her sides; she looked down with a touch of shame.

“I’m trying to say that I’m sorry; I’m trying to tell you that I—­I don’t mind how poor you are.  I thought I did, but—­oh, Jimmy, I’d rather have you, and no money at all, than—­than be as rich as Croesus with—­with any other man.”

“Cynthia!” Jimmy spoke her name in a stifled voice; she raised her eyes quickly.  There was none of the passionate joy in his face which she had so confidently expected; none of the passionate joy in his voice which her heart told her ought to be there.  Suddenly he turned aside from her; he put his arm down on the mantelshelf, hiding his face in it.