JIMMY DEMANDS THE TRUTH
Sangster had been sitting with his back to the door by which Cynthia
and her escort had entered. When he saw the sudden change in Jimmy
Challoner's face, he turned in his chair quickly.
Cynthia was seated now. She was languidly drawing off her long white
gloves. A waiter had taken her sable coat; without it the elaborate
frock she wore looked too showy; it was cut too low in the neck. A
diamond necklace glittered on her white throat.
Sangster turned back again. Under cover of the table he gave Jimmy a
kick. He saw that Christine had noticed the sudden change in his face.
To hide his friend's discomfort he rushed into speech. He tried to
distract the girl's attention; presently Jimmy recovered himself.
Mrs. Wyatt alone had not been conscious of any disturbing element.
She had lived all her life in the country, and her few visits to London
had been exceedingly brief, and always conducted on the most severe of
lines--a dull, highly respectable hotel to stay in, stalls for plays
against which no single newspaper had raised a dissentient voice, and
perhaps a visit to a museum or picture gallery.
It had only been under protest that she had consented to visit the
suburban theatre at which Cynthia Farrow was playing.
Under the guidance of Jimmy Challoner, London had suddenly been
presented to her in an entirely fresh light. Secretly she was
thoroughly enjoying herself, though once or twice she looked at
Christine with rather wistful eyes.
Christine was so wrapped up in Jimmy . . . and Jimmy!--of course, he
must know many, many other women far more attractive and beautiful than
this little daughter of hers. She half sighed as she caught the
expression of Christine's eyes as they rested on him.
Suddenly Jimmy rose.
"Will you excuse me a moment? . . . There is a friend of mine over
there. . . . Please excuse me."
Sangster scowled. He thought Jimmy was behaving like a weak fool. He
would have stopped him had it been at all possible; but Jimmy had
already left the table and crossed to where Cynthia was sitting.
The sight of her in Mortlake's company for the second time that day had
scattered his fine resolutions to the winds. There was a raging fire
of jealousy in his heart as he went up to her.
A waiter was filling her glass with champagne, Mortlake was whispering
to her confidentially across the corner of the table.
"Good evening," said Jimmy Challoner.
He did his best to control his voice, but in spite of himself a little
thrill of rage vibrated through it.
Mortlake raised himself and half frowned.
"Evening," he said shortly.
Cynthia extended her hand; she was rather pleased than otherwise to see
him. She liked having two strings to her bow; it gave her worldly
heart an odd little pang as she met the fierceness of Jimmy's
eyes. . . . He was such a dear, she thought.
Marnio's was not a place where he could make a scene either, even
supposing . . . she shot a quick glance at Mortlake. After all, it was
rather unfortunate Jimmy should have seen them together--just at
present, at any rate; it would not have mattered in a week or two's
time. She wondered if he had heard anything, if already he had
discovered by some unforeseen means how she had lied to him? . . . She
gave him one of the sweetest smiles.
"Are you having supper here, Jimmy? I didn't see you."
It was not the truth. She had seen him the moment she entered, but she
thought it more effective to pretend otherwise.
"I am over there with friends," said Jimmy curtly. He glanced across
to the table he had just left, and met Christine's eyes.
Somehow he felt uncomfortable. He looked sharply away again, and down
at the beautiful smiling face raised to his.
"When may I come and see you?" he asked bluntly.
He spoke quite distinctly; Mortlake must have heard every word.
Cynthia looked nonplussed for a moment; then she laughed.
"Come any time you like, my dear boy. . . . I am always pleased to see
you--any afternoon, you know."
She smiled and nodded. Jimmy felt that he had been dismissed. After a
moment he walked away.
His heart was a dead weight in his breast. He sat down again beside
Christine. She turned to him eagerly.
"Wasn't that Miss Farrow? . . . . Oh, Jimmy, why didn't you tell me?"
Jimmy drained his wineglass before answering.
"I forgot you were interested; I'm sorry. . . . She isn't alone, you
see, or--or I would introduce her--if you cared for me to, that is."
"I don't think Miss Wyatt would care for Miss Farrow," said Arthur
Sangster quietly.
Jimmy looked furious. Angry words rushed to his lips, but he choked
them with an effort.
"Narrow-minded old owl!" he said, half jokingly, half in earnest.
Later, when the two men had left Mrs. Wyatt and Christine at their
hotel, and were walking away together, Jimmy burst out savagely:
"What the devil do you mean about Christine not liking Cynthia? . . .
It's a gross piece of impertinence to say such a thing."
"It's the truth, all the same," said Sangster imperturbably. "The two
girls are as different as chalk from cheese. Miss Wyatt would soon
dislike Cynthia--they live in different worlds."
"Fortunately for Cynthia perhaps," said Jimmy savagely. "For pure,
ghastly dullness, recommend me to what is called the 'best
society' . . . . Christine is only a child--she always will be as long
as she is tied to her mother's apron-strings. I like Mrs. Wyatt
awfully, but you must admit that we've had a distinctly dull evening."
There was a moment's silence.
"If you really think that," said Sangster quietly, "I should keep away
from them, and I should most certainly give up paying attention to Miss
Wyatt."
Jimmy Challoner stopped dead. He turned and stared at his friend.
"What the devil are you talking about?" he demanded. His face looked
furious in the yellow light of a street lamp they were passing. "I pay
attention to Christine! Why"--he laughed suddenly--"She's only a
child."
"Very well, you know your own business best, of course; and Jimmy----"
"Well?"--ungraciously.
Sangster hesitated; finally:
"Did--did Cynthia say anything to you to-night?--anything special, I
mean?"
Jimmy laughed drearily.
"She said it was cold, or something equally interesting. She also said
that I might call upon her any afternoon, and that she was always
pleased to see her 'friends.'" He accented the last word bitterly.
"What did you expect her to say to me?" he inquired.
"Nothing; at least . . . you know what they are saying in the clubs?"
"What are they saying?"
"That she is engaged to Mortlake."
Through the darkness he heard Jimmy catch his breath hard in his throat.
"Of course, that may be only club talk," he hastened to add kindly.
"I never thought it could be anything else," said Jimmy with a rush.
"I know it's a lie, anyway. How can she be engaged to Mortlake, or any
other man--if her husband is living?"
"No," Sangster agreed quietly. "She certainly cannot be engaged to any
other man if her husband is still living."
There was an underlying meaning in his voice. Jimmy swung round
savagely.
"What are you trying to get at?" he asked. "If you know anything, tell
me and have done with it."
"I don't know anything; I am only repeating what I have heard."
"A pack of gossiping old women"--savagely.
They walked a few steps silently.
"Why not forget her, Jimmy?" said Sangster presently. "She isn't the
only woman in the world. Put her out of your life once and for all."
"It's all very fine for you to talk . . . things are not forgotten so
quickly. She's done with me--I told you so--and . . . oh, why the
devil can't you mind your own business?"