"They are always saying something! What is it now?"

But her voice was not so indifferent as she would have had it; her eyes were anxious.

"They are saying that you are engaged to Mortlake."

Jimmy's eyes never left her face; it was a tragic moment for him.

Cynthia's white hands clasped each other nervously.

"Are they?" she said. "How--how very amusing."

Her eyes had fallen now; he could only see the outline of darkened lashes against her cheek.

He waited a moment, then he strode forward--he covered the s.p.a.ce between them in a stride; he put a hand beneath her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Is it true?" he asked. "Is it true?"

His voice was strangled; his breath came tearing from between clenched teeth.

Cynthia shivered away from him, back against the pile of silken cushions behind her.

"Don't hurt me, Jimmy; don't hurt me," she whimpered.

He took her by the shoulders and shook her. "_Is it true--is it true?_"

For a moment he thought she was going to refuse to answer; then suddenly she dragged herself free. She started up, and stood facing him pantingly.

"_Yes_," she said defiantly. "_Yes, it is true_."

And then the silence fell again, long and unbroken.

It seemed an eternity to Jimmy Challoner; an eternity during which he stood there like a man in a dream, staring at her flushed face.

The world had surely come crashing about him in ruins; for the moment, at least, he was blind and deaf to everything.

When at last he could find his voice--

"It was all--a lie then--about your--husband!--a lie--to--to get rid of me."

"If you like to put it that way."

Jimmy turned blindly to the door. He felt like a drunken man. He had opened it when she called his name; when she followed and caught his hand, holding him back.

"Jimmy, don't go like that--not without saying good-bye. We've been such friends--we've had such good times together."

She was sobbing now; genuine enough sobs they seemed. She clung to him desperately.

"I always loved you; you must have known that I did, only--only---- Oh, I couldn't bear to be poor! That was it, Jimmy. I couldn't face being poor."

Jimmy stood like a statue. One might almost have thought he had not been listening. Then suddenly he wrenched his hand free.

"Let me go, for G.o.d's sake--let me go!"

He left her there, sobbing and calling his name.

She heard him go down the stairs--heard the sullen slam of a distant door; then she rushed over to the window.

It was too dark to see him as he strode away from the house; everything seemed horribly silent and empty.

Jimmy had gone; and Cynthia Farrow knew, as she stood there in the disordered room, that by sending him away she had made the greatest mistake of her selfish life.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SECOND ENGAGEMENT

Out in the night Jimmy Challoner stood for a moment in the darkness, not knowing where to go or what to do.

He had had a bad shock. He could have borne it if she had only thrown him over for that other man; but that she should have thought it worth while to lie to him about it struck him to the soul. She had made a fool of him--an utter and complete fool; he would never forgive her as long as he lived.

After a moment he walked on. He carried his hat in his hand. The cool night air fanned his hot forehead.

He had lost everything that had made life worth living; that was his first pa.s.sionate thought. n.o.body wanted him--n.o.body cared a hang what became of him; he told himself that he could quite understand poor devils who jumped off bridges.

He went into the first restaurant he came to, and ordered a neat brandy; that made him feel better, and he ordered a second on the strength of it. The first shock had pa.s.sed; anger took its place.

He would never forgive her; all his life he would never forgive her; she was not worth a thought. She had never been worth loving.

She was a heartless, scheming woman; little Christine Wyatt had more affection in the clasp of her hand than Cynthia had in the whole of her beautiful body.

The thought of Christine recalled Sangster's words.

Sangster was a fool; he did not know what he was talking about.

Christine and he had been sweethearts as children certainly, but that anything more could ever exist between them was absurd.

But he began to remember the little flush that always crept into Christine's face when she saw him, the expression of her beautiful eyes; and the memory gave him back some of his lost self-confidence.

Christine liked him, at all events; Christine would never have behaved as Cynthia had done . . . Christine. . . . Jimmy Challoner hailed a pa.s.sing taxi, and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and her mother were staying.

His desire for sympathy drove him there; his desire to be with someone who liked his company. He was bruised all over by the treatment he had received from Cynthia Farrow; he wanted balm poured on his wounds.

The hall porter told him that Mrs. Wyatt was out, but that he thought the young lady----

"It's Miss Wyatt I wish to see," said Jimmy impatiently.

After a moment he was asked to come upstairs. He knew the Wyatts had a private sitting-room. Christine was there by the fire when he entered.

"Jimmy," she said eagerly.