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.