Christine laughed—­a hard little laugh, strangely unlike her.

“I am not so sure,” she answered.

They had turned into Regent Street now.  A flower-girl thrust a bunch of scented violets into Jimmy’s face.

“Buy a bunch for the pretty lady, sir.”

Jimmy smiled involuntarily.  He looked at Christine.

“May I buy them for you?” He did not wait for her answer; he gave the girl a shilling.

Christine took the flowers indifferently.  She kept marvelling at herself.  It seemed impossible that she was the same girl who had once walked these very streets with Jimmy, her heart beating fast with happiness.  Then, had he given her a bunch of violets, she would have thrilled at the little gift; but now—­she tucked them carelessly into the front of her coat.  She did not notice when presently they fell out; but Jimmy had seen, and there was a curiously hurt look in his eyes.

They walked through the park.  Jimmy met several people he knew; he raised his hat mechanically, making no attempt to stop and speak.

Christine looked at everyone with a sense of antagonism.

Of course all Jimmy’s friends knew that once he had loved Cynthia Farrow; no doubt many of them had seen him walking with her through this very park.  Something of the old jealousy touched her for a moment.  She would never be able to forget, even If she lived for years and years; the memory of the woman who had wrecked her happiness would always be there between them—­a shadow which it was impossible to banish.

“What about some lunch?” said Jimmy presently.  He glanced at his watch.  “It’s half past twelve.”

“I should like to ask Mr. Sangster to come with us,” Christine said quickly.  “Is he anywhere—­anywhere where we can find him?”

“I can ’phone.  He’s not on the ’phone himself, but the people downstairs will take a message, if you don’t mind waiting for a moment.”

“I don’t mind at all.”

She was dreading another tete-a-tete lunch with her husband.  It had been in her mind all the morning to suggest that Sangster came with them.  She remembered bitterly how once Jimmy had suggested bringing his friend to share their wedding breakfast.  Things had strangely reversed themselves since that morning.

She waited outside the call box while Jimmy went in; she watched him through the glass door.  He was standing with his hat at the back of his head, his elbow resting on the wooden box itself.  He looked very young, she thought, in spite of his slightly haggard appearance.  Something in his attitude reminded her of him as he had been in his Eton days—­long-legged and ungainly in his short jacket.  She smothered a little sigh.  They had drifted such a weary way since then; too far to ever retrace their steps.

Presently he rejoined her.

“I am sorry—­Sangster is not in.”

“Oh!” She looked disappointed.  “Is there—­isn’t there anyone else we can ask?”