She looked rather puzzled.

“Do you mean that?” she asked.  “Or are you—­are you joking?”

He felt suddenly ashamed.

“I mean it, of course,” he said gently.  “I am very fond of Jimmy, though I haven’t known him as long as you have.”

“How long?” she asked.

He made a little calculation.

“Well, it must be five years,” he said at length.  “Or perhaps it is six; the time goes so quickly, I lose count.”

“And do you live in London too?”

“Yes; I live in an unfashionable part of Bloomsbury.”

“Near Jimmy?”

“No; Jimmy lives in the Temple.”

“Oh.”

It evidently conveyed nothing to her.

“And do you know his brother—­the great Horatio?” she asked laughingly.

“I had the honour of meeting him once,” he answered with mock gravity.

“So did I—­years ago.  Isn’t he funny?”

“Very.”  Sangster agreed.  He thought it a very mild word with which to describe Horatio Ferdinand; he pitied Jimmy supremely for having to own such a relative.  The stage bell rang through the theatre, the curtain began to swing slowly up.

“We went to see Cynthia Farrow the other night,” Christine said.  “Isn’t she lovely?”

“I suppose she is!”

“Suppose!  I think she’s the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Christine declared vehemently.  “Jimmy knows her, he says.”  She turned her head.  “Do you know her too?”

“Yes—­slightly.”

“You don’t sound as if you like her,” she said quickly.

He laughed in spite of himself.

“Perhaps because she doesn’t like me,” he answered.

“Doesn’t she?” Christine’s grave eyes searched his face.  “I like you, anyway,” she said.

Sangster did not look at her, but a little flush rose to his brow.

“Thank you,” he said, and his voice sounded, somehow, quite changed.

As the curtain fell on the second act, he rose quietly from his seat and went round to where Jimmy stood.

“Take my place,” he said in an undertone.  Jimmy looked up.  He had not been following the play; he had been thinking—­thinking always of the same thing, always of the past few weeks, and the shock of their ending.

He rose to his feet rather reluctantly.  Sangster sat down beside Mrs.
Wyatt.

Once or twice he looked across to Christine.  She and Jimmy were not talking very much, but there was a little smile on Christine’s face, and she looked at Jimmy very often.

Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand, staring before him with moody eyes.  Sangster felt a sort of impatience.  What the deuce could the fellow ever have seen in Cynthia Farrow? he asked himself.  Was he blind, that he could not penetrate her shallowness, and see the small selfishness of her nature?

A pretty face and laugh, and an undoubted knowledge of men—­they were all the assets she possessed; and Sangster knew it.  But to Jimmy—­Sangster metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he looked at his friend’s moody face.