reflectively.

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It's the best thing that's ever happened to you, my son."

Jimmy's eyes travelled down from the ceiling slowly; perhaps it was coincidence that they rested on the place on the mantelshelf where Cynthia's portrait used to stand.

"Think so?" he said gruffly. "You never liked her."

"I did—but not as your wife. . . . She's much more suited to Henson Mortlake—I always thought so. He'll keep her in order; you never could have done."

Jimmy had been standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece; he swung round sharply.

"Mortlake; what's he got to do with it?" he asked fiercely. "What the deuce do you mean by dragging him in? It was nothing to do with Mortlake that she—she——"

Sangster was looking at him curiously.

"Oh! I understood—what was the reason, then?" he asked.

Jimmy turned away. He found the other man's eyes somehow disconcerting.

"She's married already," he said in a stifled voice. "I—I always knew she had been married, of course. She made no secret of it. He—the brute—left her years ago; but last week—well, he turned up again. . . . She—we—we had always believed he was dead."

There was a little silence. Sangster was no longer looking at Jimmy; he was staring into the fire. Presently he began to whistle softly. Jimmy rounded on him.

"Oh, shut up!" he said irritably.

Sangster stopped at once. After a moment:

"And the—er—husband!" he submitted dryly. "You've—you've seen him, of course."

"No, I haven't. If I did—if I did, I'd break every bone in his infernal carcase," said Jimmy Challoner, between his teeth.

He stared down at his friend with defiant, eyes as he spoke.

Sangster said "Humph!" again. Then: "Well, there's as good fish in the sea as any that were caught," he said cheerily. "Look at it philosophically, old son."

Jimmy kicked a footstool out of his way. He walked over to the window, and stood for a moment with his back turned. Presently:

"If anyone asks you, you might as well tell them the truth," he said jerkily. "I—don't let them think that brute Mortlake——"

He broke off.

"I'll tell 'em the truth," said Sangster.

He leaned over the fire, poking it vigorously.

"What are you doing to-night, Jimmy?" he asked, "I'm at a loose end——"

Jimmy turned.

"I'm taking some people to the theatre—old friends! Met them quite by chance the other night. Haven't you heard me speak of them—the Wyatts?"

"By Jove, yes!" Sangster dropped the poker unceremoniously. "People from Upton House. You used to be full of them when I first knew you, and that's how many years ago, Jimmy?"

"The Lord only knows!" said Jimmy dispiritedly. "Well, I've got a box for a show to-night, and asked them to come. Christine's dead nuts on theatres. Remember Christine?"

"I remember the name. Old sweetheart of yours, wasn't she?"

"When we were kids."

"Oh, like that, is it? Well, ask me to come along too."

"My dear fellow—come by all means."

Jimmy was rather pleased at the suggestion. "You'll like Mrs.
Wyatt—she's one of the best."

"And—Christine?"

"Oh she's all right; but she's only a child still," said Jimmy
Challoner with all the lordly superiority of half a dozen years.