“If you hadn’t been here we should have gone into the wall, shouldn’t we?” she demanded.

Kettering laughed.

“I’m very much afraid we should,” he said.  “But that’s nothing.  I did all manner of weird things when I first started to drive.  Take the wheel again and have another try.”

But Christine refused.

“I might smash the car, and that would be awful.  You’d never forgive me.”

“Should I not!” His grave eyes searched her pretty face.  “I don’t think you need be very alarmed about that,” he said.  “However, if you insist——­” He changed places with her and took the wheel himself.

It was early morning, and fresh and sunny.  Christine was flushed and smiling, for the moment at least there were no shadows in her eyes; she looked more like the girl who had smiled up from the stalls in the theatre to where Jimmy Challoner sat alone in his box that night of their meeting.

Jimmy had never once been mentioned between herself and this man since that first afternoon.  Save for the fact that Kettering called her “Mrs. Challoner,” Christine might have been unmarried.

“Gladys will think we have run away,” she told him presently with a little laugh.  “I told her we should be only half an hour.”

“Have we been longer?” he asked surprised.

Christine looked at her watch.

“Nearly an hour,” she said.  “We were muddling about in the drive for ever so long, you know; and I really think we ought to go back.”

“If you really think so——­” He turned the car reluctantly.  “I suppose you wouldn’t care for a little run after lunch?” he asked carelessly.  “I’ve got to go over to Heston.  I should be delighted to take you.”

“I should love it—­if I can bring Gladys.”

He did not answer for a moment, then: 

“Oh, bring Gladys by all means,” he said rather dryly.

“What time?”

“I’ll call for you at two—­If that will do.”

They had reached the house again now; Christine got out of the car and stood for a moment with one foot on the step looking up at Kettering.

There was a little silence.

“How long have we known each other?” he asked suddenly.

She looked up startled—­she made a rapid calculation.

“Nearly three weeks, isn’t it?” she said then.

He laughed.

“It seems longer; it seems as if I must have known you all my life.”

The words were ordinary enough, but the look in his eyes brought the swift colour to Christine’s cheeks—­her eyes fell.

“Is that a compliment?” she asked, trying to speak naturally.

“I hope so; I meant it to be.”

Her hand was resting on the open door of the car; for an instant he laid his own above it; Christine drew hers quickly away.

“Well, we’ll be ready at two, then,” she said.  She turned to the house.  Kettering drove slowly down the drive.  He was a very fine-looking man, Christine thought with sudden wistfulness; he had been so kind to her—­kinder than anyone she had ever known.  She was glad he was going to have Upton House, as it had got to be sold.  He had promised her to look after it, and not have any of the trees in the garden cut down.