Costin obeyed imperturbably.  He knew Jimmy Challoner very well; and in this case, at all events, the master was certainly no hero to the valet.  Left alone, Jimmy subsided again into his chair with a sigh.  The day after to-morrow! it seemed as if it must be the end of everything; as if he would be brought up sharply against an unscalable brick wall when his wedding-day came.

Poor little Christine! she had changed very much during the past few days; she looked somehow older—­more grown-up; she smiled less frequently, and she was very quiet—­even with Jimmy.  And she loved Jimmy; she seemed to love him all the more now that he was all that was left to her.  Jimmy realised it, too, and it worried him.  He meant to be good to her—­he wanted to be good to her; but—­involuntarily he glanced towards the blank space on the mantelshelf where Cynthia Farrow’s portrait used to stand.

He had not seen her since that night when she had told him the truth; when she had told him that she had thrown him over because he was not rich enough, because she valued diamonds and beautiful clothes more than she valued his love.  He wondered if she knew of his engagement; if she had been told about it, and if so—­whether she minded.

So far nobody had seemed particularly pleased except the Great Horatio, who had cabled that he was delighted, and that he was making immediate arrangements to increase Jimmy’s allowance.

Jimmy had smiled grimly over that part of the message; it was hard luck that the Great Horatio should only shell out now, when—­when—­he pulled up his thoughts sharply; he tried to remember that he was already almost as good as a married man; he had no right to be thinking of another woman; he was going to marry Christine.

The door opened; Costin reappeared.

“Please, sir—­a lady to see you.”

“What!”

Jimmy stared incredulously.  “A lady to see me?  Rot!  It’s some mistake——­”

“No, sir, begging your pardon, sir,” said Costin stolidly.  “It’s—­if you please, sir, it’s Miss Farrow.”

Jimmy stood immovable for a moment, then he turned round slowly and mechanically, almost as if someone had taken him by his shoulders and forced him to do so.

“Miss—­Farrow!” he echoed Costin’s apologetic utterance of Cynthia’s name expressionlessly.  “Miss—­Farrow . . .”  The colour rushed from his brow to chin; his heart began to race just as it used to in the old days when he had called to see her, and was waiting in her pink drawing-room, listening to the sound of her coming steps on the landing outside.  After a moment: 

“Ask—­ask her to come in,” he said.

He turned back to the mirror; mechanically he passed a hand over the refractory kink in his hair; he looked at his tie with critical eyes; he wished there had been time to shave, he wished—­and then he forgot to wish anything more at all, for the door had opened, and Cynthia herself stood there.