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.

“I am never going to live with you any more.  I—­I wish I had never seen you.”

Even her voice seemed to have changed; he realized it dully, and the knowledge added to his anger.  She no longer spoke in the half-trembling childish way he remembered; there was something more grown-up and womanly about her.

“Don’t be a little fool,” he said roughly.  “What is the matter?  What have I done now?  I’m sick to death of these scenes and heroics; for God’s sake try and behave like a rational woman.  Do you want the whole hotel to know that we’ve quarrelled?”

“They know already,” she told him fiercely.