“I think I can trust you with Christine,” said Christine’s mother.  “But you’ll be in to tea?”

Jimmy promised.  He did not really want to take Christine out.  He did not really want to do anything.  He talked to Mrs. Wyatt while Christine put on her hat and coat.  When they left the hotel he asked if she would like a taxi.

Christine laughed.

“Of course not.  I love walking.”

“Do you?” said Jimmy.  He was faintly surprised.  Cynthia would never walk a step if she could help it.  He pondered at the difference in the two women.

They went to the Park.  It was a fine, sunny afternoon, cold and crisp.

Christine wore soft brown furs, just the colour of her eyes, Jimmy Challoner thought, and realised that her eyes would be very beautiful to a man who liked dark eyes in preference to blue, but—­thoughts of Cynthia came crowding back again.  If only he were with her instead of this girl; if only——­ Christine touched his arm.

“Oh, Jimmy, look!  Isn’t that—­isn’t that Miss Farrow?”

Her voice was excited.  She was looking eagerly across the grass to where a woman and a man were walking together beneath the trees.

Jimmy’s heart leapt to his throat; for a moment it seemed to stop beating.

Yes, it was Cynthia right enough; Cynthia with no trace of the headache with which she had excused herself to him only that morning; Cynthia walking with—­with Henson Mortlake.

Christine spoke again, breathlessly.

“Is it?  Oh, is it Miss Farrow, Jimmy?”

“Yes,” said Jimmy hoarsely.

Cynthia had turned now.  She and the man at her side were walking back towards Jimmy and Christine.

As they drew nearer Cynthia’s eyes swept the eager face and slim figure of the girl at Jimmy’s side.  There was the barest flicker of her lids before she raised them and smiled and bowed.

Jimmy raised his hat.  He was very pale; his mouth was set in unsmiling lines.

“Oh, she is lovely!” said Christine eagerly.  “I think she is even prettier off the stage than she is on, don’t you?  Actresses so seldom are, but she—­oh, don’t you think she is beautiful, Jimmy?”

“Yes,” said Challoner.  He hated himself because he could get nothing out but that monosyllable; hated himself because of the storm of emotion the sight of Cynthia had roused in his heart.

She had looked calm and serene enough; he wondered bitterly if she ever thought of the hours they had spent together, the times he had kissed her, the future they had planned.  He set his teeth hard.

And apparently the fact that her husband still lived was no barrier to her walking with Mortlake.  He hated the little bounder.  He——­

“Who was that with her?” Christine asked.  “I didn’t like the look of him very much.  I do hope she isn’t going to marry him.”

“She’s married already,” said Jimmy.  He felt a sort of impatience with Christine; she was so—­so childish, so—­so immaturish, he thought.