that he loved her. He sat up, frowning.
He did love her--of course he did; or, at least, he would when they
were married and settled down. Men always loved their wives--decent
men, that is.

He tried to believe that. He tried to forget the heaps and heaps of
unhappy marriages which had been brought before his notice; friends of
his own--all jolly decent chaps, too.

But, of course, such a thing would never happen to him. He meant to
play the game by Christine, she was a dear little thing. But the face
of Cynthia would rise before his eyes; he could not forget the way she
had cried that evening, and clung to him.

He forgot how she had lied and deceived him; he remembered only that
she loved him--that she admitted that she still loved him.

It was all the cursed money. If only the Great Horatio would come out
of his niggardly shell and stump up a bit! It was not fair--he was as
rich as Croesus; it would not hurt him to fork out another five hundred
a year.

Jimmy leaned his head in his hands; his head was aching badly now; he
supposed it was the quantity of brandy he had drunk. He got up from
his chair, and, turning out the light, went off to bed. But the
darkness seemed worse than the light; it was crowded with pictures of
Cynthia. He saw her face in a thousand different memories; her eyes
drew and tortured him. She was the only woman he had ever loved; he
was sure of that. He was more sure of it with every passing, wakeful
second.

He never slept a wink till it began to get light. When at last he fell
asleep he had dreadful dreams. He woke up to the sound of Costin
moving about the room. He turned over with a stifled groan.

"Good morning, sir," said Costin stolidly.

Jimmy did not condescend to answer. Pale sunlight was pouring through
the window. He closed his eyes; his head still ached vilely. He got
up late, and dressed with a bad grace.

He ate no breakfast. He tried to remember whether he had promised to
go round to the Wyatts' that morning or not; everything was a blank in
his mind except the one fact that he was engaged to Christine.

He could remember that clearly enough, at all events.

About eleven he took his hat and went out. He was annoyed because the
sun was shining; he was annoyed because London was looking cheerful
when he himself felt depressed beyond measure.

Unconsciously he found his way to the Wyatts' hotel; they were both
out, for which he was grateful.

"Mis