SANGSTER TAKES A HAND
"And so you and Jimmy were children together," said Arthur Sangster.
The curtain had just fallen on the first act, and the lights turned up
suddenly in the theatre had revealed Christine's face to him a little
flushed and dreamy.
Sangster looked at her smilingly. Jimmy had called her a child; but he
had not said how sweet a child she was, he thought, as his eyes rested
on her dainty profile and parted lips.
She seemed to wake from dreaming at the sound of his voice. She gave a
little sigh, and leaned back in her chair.
"Yes," she said. "We used to play together when we were children."
"Such a long, long time ago," said Sangster, half mockingly, half in
earnest.
She nodded seriously.
"It seems ages and ages," she said. She looked past him to where Jimmy
sat talking to her mother. He might have sat next to her, she thought
wistfully. Mr. Sangster was very nice, but--she caught a little sigh
between her lips.
"Jimmy has told me so much about you," Sangster said. "I almost feel
as if I have known you for years."
"Has he?" That pleased her, at all events. Her brown eyes shone as
she looked at him. "What did he tell you?" she asked, interestedly.
Sangster laughed.
"Oh, all about Upton House, and the fine time you used to have there;
all about the dogs, and an old horse named Judas."
She laughed too, now.
"Judas--he died last year. He was so old, and nearly blind; but he
always knew my step and came to the gate." Her voice sounded wistful.
"Jimmy used to ride him round the field, standing up on his back," she
went on eagerly. "Jimmy could ride anything."
"Jimmy is a very wonderful person," said Sangster gravely.
She looked rather puzzled.
"Do you mean that?" she asked. "Or are you--are you joking?"
He felt suddenly ashamed.
"I mean it, of course," he said gently. "I am very fond of Jimmy,
though I haven't known him as long as you have."
"How long?" she asked.
He made a little calculation.
"Well, it must be five years," he said at length. "Or perhaps it is
six; the time goes so quickly, I lose count."
"And do you live in London too?"
"Yes; I live in an unfashionable part of Bloomsbury."
"Near Jimmy?"
"No; Jimmy lives in the Temple."
"Oh."
It evidently conveyed nothing to her.
"And do you know his brother--the great Horatio?" she asked laughingly.
"I had the honour of meeting him once," he answered with mock gravity.
"So did I--years ago. Isn't he funny?"
"Very." Sangster agreed. He thought it a very mild word with which to
describe Horatio Ferdinand; he pitied Jimmy supremely for having to own
such a relative. The stage bell rang through the theatre, the curtain
began to swing slowly up.
"We went to see Cynthia Farrow the other night," Christine said.
"Isn't she lovely?"
"I suppose she is!"
"Suppose! I think she's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,"
Christine declared vehemently. "Jimmy knows her, he says." She turned
her head. "Do you know her too?"
"Yes--slightly."
"You don't sound as if you like her," she said quickly.
He laughed in spite of himself.
"Perhaps because she doesn't like me," he answered.
"Doesn't she?" Christine's grave eyes searched his face. "I like you,
anyway," she said.
Sangster did not look at her, but a little flush rose to his brow.
"Thank you," he said, and his voice sounded, somehow, quite changed.
As the curtain fell on the second act, he rose quietly from his seat
and went round to where Jimmy stood.
"Take my place," he said in an undertone. Jimmy looked up. He had not
been following the play; he had been thinking--thinking always of the
same thing, always of the past few weeks, and the shock of their ending.
He rose to his feet rather reluctantly. Sangster sat down beside Mrs.
Wyatt.
Once or twice he looked across to Christine. She and Jimmy were not
talking very much, but there was a little smile on Christine's face,
and she looked at Jimmy very often.
Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand, staring before him
with moody eyes. Sangster felt a sort of impatience. What the deuce
could the fellow ever have seen in Cynthia Farrow? he asked himself.
Was he blind, that he could not penetrate her shallowness, and see the
small selfishness of her nature?
A pretty face and laugh, and an undoubted knowledge of men--they were
all the assets she possessed; and Sangster knew it. But to
Jimmy--Sangster metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he looked at
his friend's moody face.
How could he sit there next to that child and not realise that in his
longing he was only grasping at a shadow? What was he made of that he
saw more beauty in Cynthia Farrow's blue eyes than in the sweet face of
his boyhood's love?
Sangster was glad when the play was over; theatres always bored him.
He did not quite know why he had invited himself to Jimmy's box
to-night. When they rose to leave he smiled indulgently at Christine's
rapt face.
"You have enjoyed it," he said.
"Yes--ever so much. But I liked Miss Farrow and the play she was in
better."
Jimmy turned sharply away; nobody answered.
"We're going on to Marnio's to supper," Jimmy said as they crossed the
foyer. "Christine has never been there."
She looked up instantly.
"No, I haven't."
"It's the place to see stage favourites," Sangster told her.
In his heart he was surprised that Jimmy should choose to go there. He
thought it extremely probable that Cynthia Farrow and some of her
numerous admirers would put in an appearance; but it was not his
business, and he raised no objection.
When they entered the long room he cast a swift glance round. She was
not here yet, at all events; one could only hope that she would not
come at all.
Everything was new and wonderful to Christine. She was like a child in
her delight. She sat in a corner of one of the great, softly cushioned
sofas, and looked about her with wide eyes.
Jimmy sat beside her. Sangster had manoeuvred that he should. He and
Mrs. Wyatt were opposite.
The orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz. The long room was
brilliantly lit, and decorated with pink flowers.
Christine leaned across and squeezed her mother's hand.
"Oh, isn't it just too lovely?" she said.
Mrs. Wyatt laughed.
"You will turn Christine's head, Jimmy," she said to Challoner. "She
will find Upton House dull after all this gaiety."
Jimmy was slightly bored. It was no novelty to him. He had spent so
many nights dining and supping in similar places to Marnio's. All the
waiters knew him. He wondered if they were surprised to see him
without Cynthia Farrow. For weeks past he and she had been everywhere
together. He met Sangster's quizzical eyes; he roused himself with an
effort; he turned to Christine and began to talk.
He told her who some of the people were at the other tables. He
pointed out a famous conductor, and London's most popular comedian.
Christine was interested in everyone and everything. Her eyes
sparkled, and her usually pale face was flushed. She was pretty
to-night, if she had never been pretty before.
"I suppose you come here often?" she said. She looked up into Jimmy's
bored young face. "I suppose it's not at all new or wonderful to you?"
He smiled.
"Well, I'm afraid it isn't; you see----" He broke off; he sat staring
across the room with a sudden fire in his eyes.
A man and woman had just entered. The woman was in evening dress, with
a beautiful sable coat. Her hand was resting on the man's arm. She
was looking up at him with smiling eyes.
Jimmy caught his breath hard in his throat. For a moment the gaily lit
room swam before him--for the woman was Cynthia Farrow, and the man at
her side was Henson Mortlake.