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.

“Miss Wyatt left a message for you in case you called, sir,” the porter told him.  “She said would you come back to lunch?”

Jimmy muttered something and walked away.  He had no intention of going back to lunch; he wandered down Regent Street.  Presently he found himself staring in at a jeweller’s window.  That reminded him; he would have to buy Christine a ring.

He wondered if Cynthia intended to keep the one he had given to her; it had cost him a fabulous sum.  He had been hard up for weeks afterwards in consequence; and even then it was not nearly so fine as some she already had—­as some Mortlake could afford to give her, for instance.

He could not yet realise that this detestable thing had really happened to him.  He made up his mind that if Christine would have him, he would marry her at once.  There was nothing to wait for—­and he wanted to let Cynthia see that he was not going to wear the willow for her.