THE TWO WOMEN
Christine was just crossing the hall of the hotel when Jimmy Challoner
entered it. She saw him at once, and stood still with a little flush
in her face.
"I was just thinking about you," she said. "I was just wondering if
you would come and see us to-day; somehow I didn't think you would."
She spoke very simply and unaffectedly. She was genuinely pleased to
see him, and saw no reason for hiding it. "Have you had lunch?" she
asked. "Mother and I are just going to have ours."
If he had given way to his own inclinations he would have gone without
lunch--without everything. He was utterly wretched. The kindness of
Christine's eyes brought a lump to his throat. He did not want her to
be kind to him. She was not the woman he wanted at all. Why, oh, why
was he here when his heart was away--God alone knew where--with Cynthia!
What was she doing? he was asking himself in an agony, even while he
followed Christine across the hall to the dining-room; had she really
meant him to accept that note of dismissal as final? or had it just
been written in a moment of petulance?
He had not meant to think about her; he had vowed to put her out of his
thoughts for ever, to let her see that he would not wear the willow for
her; and yet--oh, they were all very well, these fine resolves, but
when a chap was utterly--confoundedly down and out----
He found himself shaking hands with Christine's mother.
"Jimmy hasn't had any lunch," Christine was saying. "So I asked him to
have some with us."
Her voice sounded very gay; the little flush had not died out of her
cheeks.
"I am very pleased you have come," said Christine's mother. She shook
hands with Jimmy, and smiled at him with her mother-eyes.
Jimmy wished they would not be so kind to him. It made him feel a
thousand times more miserable.
When he began to eat he was surprised to find that he was really
hungry. A glass of wine cheered him considerably; he began to talk and
make himself agreeable. As a matter of course, they talked about the
old days at Upton House; Jimmy began to remember things he had almost
forgotten; there had been an old stable-loft----
"Do you remember when you fell down the ladder?" Christine asked him
laughingly. "And the way you bumped your head----"
"And the way you cried," Jimmy reminded her.
"Didn't she, Mrs. Wyatt?"
Mrs. Wyatt laughed.
"Don't refer to me, please," she said. "I am beginning to think that I
never knew half what you two did in those days."
Christine looked at Jimmy shyly.
"They were lovely days," she said with a sigh.
"Ripping!" Jimmy agreed. He tried to put great enthusiasm into his
voice, but in his heart he knew that he had long since outgrown the
simple pleasures that had seemed so great to him then. He thought of
Cynthia, and the wild Bohemianism of the weeks that had passed since he
first got engaged to her; that was life if you pleased, with a capital
letter. It seemed incredible that it was all ended and done with; that
Cynthia wanted him no longer; that his place in her life was filled by
another man; that he would never wait at the theatre for her any more;
never---- He caught his breath on a great sigh. Christine looked at
him with her brown eyes. She, at least, had never outgrown the old
days; to her they would always be the most wonderful of her whole life.
"And what are we going to do this afternoon?" Mrs. Wyatt asked when
lunch was ended.
"Anything you like," said Jimmy. "I am entirely at your disposal."
"Mother always likes a nap after lunch," said Christine laughing. "She
never will stir till she has had it."
"Very well; then you and I will go off somewhere together," said Jimmy
promptly. "At least"--he looked apologetically at Mrs. Wyatt--"if we
may?" he added.
"I think I can trust you with Christine," said Christine's mother.
"But you'll be in to tea?"
Jimmy promised. He did not really want to take Christine out. He did
not really want to do anything. He talked to Mrs. Wyatt while
Christine put on her hat and coat. When they left the hotel he asked
if she would like a taxi.
Christine laughed.
"Of course not. I love walking."
"Do you?" said Jimmy. He was faintly surprised. Cynthia would never
walk a step if she could help it. He pondered at the difference in the
two women.
They went to the Park. It was a fine, sunny afternoon, cold and crisp.
Christine wore soft brown furs, just the colour of her eyes, Jimmy
Challoner thought, and realised that her eyes would be very beautiful
to a man who liked dark eyes in preference to blue, but--thoughts of
Cynthia came crowding back again. If only he were with her instead of
this girl; if only---- Christine touched his arm.
"Oh, Jimmy, look! Isn't that--isn't that Miss Farrow?"
Her voice was excited. She was looking eagerly across the grass to
where a woman and a man were walking together beneath the trees.
Jimmy's heart leapt to his throat; for a moment it seemed to stop
beating.
Yes, it was Cynthia right enough; Cynthia with no trace of the headache
with which she had excused herself to him only that morning; Cynthia
walking with--with Henson Mortlake.
Christine spoke again, breathlessly.
"Is it? Oh, is it Miss Farrow, Jimmy?"
"Yes," said Jimmy hoarsely.
Cynthia had turned now. She and the man at her side were walking back
towards Jimmy and Christine.
As they drew nearer Cynthia's eyes swept the eager face and slim figure
of the girl at Jimmy's side. There was the barest flicker of her lids
before she raised them and smiled and bowed.
Jimmy raised his hat. He was very pale; his mouth was set in unsmiling
lines.
"Oh, she is lovely!" said Christine eagerly. "I think she is even
prettier off the stage than she is on, don't you? Actresses so seldom
are, but she--oh, don't you think she is beautiful, Jimmy?"
"Yes," said Challoner. He hated himself because he could get nothing
out but that monosyllable; hated himself because of the storm of
emotion the sight of Cynthia had roused in his heart.
She had looked calm and serene enough; he wondered bitterly if she ever
thought of the hours they had spent together, the times he had kissed
her, the future they had planned. He set his teeth hard.
And apparently the fact that her husband still lived was no barrier to
her walking with Mortlake. He hated the little bounder. He----
"Who was that with her?" Christine asked. "I didn't like the look of
him very much. I do hope she isn't going to marry him."
"She's married already," said Jimmy. He felt a sort of impatience with
Christine; she was so--so childish, so--so immaturish, he thought.
"And do you know her husband?" she asked. She turned her beautiful
eyes to his pale face.
"I've never seen him," said Jimmy. "But I should think he's a brute
from what I've heard about him. He--he--oh, he treated her rottenly."
"What a shame!" Christine half turned and looked after Cynthia Farrow's
retreating figure. "Jimmy, wouldn't you be proud of such a beautiful
wife?"
Jimmy laughed, rather a mirthless laugh.
"Penniless beggars like me don't marry beautiful wives like--like Miss
Farrow," he said with a sort of savagery. "They want men with pots and
pots of money, who can buy them motor-cars and diamonds, and all the
rest of it." His voice was hurt and angry. Christine looked puzzled.
She walked on a little way silently. Then:
"I shouldn't mind how poor a man was if I loved him," she said.
Jimmy looked down at her. Her face was half-hidden by the soft brown
fur she wore, but he could just get a glimpse of dark lashes against
her pale cheek, and the dainty outline of forehead and cheek.
"You won't always think that," he told her cynically. "Some day, when
you're older and wiser than you are now, you'll find yourself looking
at the L. s. d. side of a man, Christine."
"I never shall," she cried out indignantly. "Jimmy, you are horrid!"
But Jimmy Challoner did not smile.
"Women are all the same," he told her darkly.
Oh, he was very, very young indeed, was Jimmy Challoner!