The Second Honeymoon | Page 8

the moment he was unconscious of any emotion.
He walked over to the window and read the letter again. The only thing
about it that really struck him was its note of finality.
This was no petulantly written dismissal. She had thought it well out;
she really meant it.
He was jilted! The word stung him into life. His face flamed. A wave
of passionate anger swept over him. He was jilted! The detestable thing
for which he had always so deeply pitied other men of his acquaintance
had happened to him. He was no longer an engaged man, he was
discarded, unwanted!
For the moment he forgot the eloquent fact of Cynthia's marriage. He
only realised that she had thrown him aside--finished with him.
And he had loved her so much. He had never cared a hang for any other
woman in all his life in comparison with the devotion he had poured at
Cynthia's feet.
He looked round the room with blank eyes. He could not believe that
he had not fallen asleep and dreamed it all. His gaze was arrested by
Cynthia's portrait on the shelf--it seemed to be watching him with
smiling eyes.
In sudden rage he crossed the room and snatched it up. He stood for a
second holding it in his hand as if not knowing what to do with it, then

he dashed it down into the fireplace. The glass splintered into hundreds
of fragments. Jimmy Challoner stood staring down at them with
passionate eyes. He hated her. She was a flirt, a coquette without a
heart.
If he could only pay her out--only let her see how utterly indifferent he
was. If only there was some other woman who would be nice to him,
and let him be nice to her, to make Cynthia jealous.
He thought suddenly of Christine Wyatt, of the little flame in her
brown eyes when last night he had reminded her of the old days at
Upton House. His vain man's heart had been stirred then. She liked him
at all events.
Mrs. Wyatt had said that she hoped they would see much of him while
they were in London. If he chose, he knew that he could be with them
all day and every day. Cynthia would get to hear of it, Cynthia would
know that he was not wearing the willow for her. He would not even
answer her letter. He would just keep away--walk out of her life.
For a moment a sort of desolation gripped him. He had been so proud
of her, thought so much of their future together; made such wonderful
plans for getting round the Great Horatio; and now--it was all
ended--done for!
His careless face fell into haggard lines, but the next instant he got a
fresh grip of himself. He would show her, he would let her see that he
was no weakling, no lovelorn swain pleading for denied favours. He
squared his shoulders. He took up his hat and went into the street again.
He called a taxi and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and
her mother were staying.
CHAPTER III
THE TWO WOMEN
Christine was just crossing the hall of the hotel when Jimmy Challoner
entered it. She saw him at once, and stood still with a little flush in her

face.
"I was just thinking about you," she said. "I was just wondering if you
would come and see us to-day; somehow I didn't think you would."
She spoke very simply and unaffectedly. She was genuinely pleased to
see him, and saw no reason for hiding it. "Have you had lunch?" she
asked. "Mother and I are just going to have ours."
If he had given way to his own inclinations he would have gone
without lunch--without everything. He was utterly wretched. The
kindness of Christine's eyes brought a lump to his throat. He did not
want her to be kind to him. She was not the woman he wanted at all.
Why, oh, why was he here when his heart was away--God alone knew
where--with Cynthia!
What was she doing? he was asking himself in an agony, even while he
followed Christine across the hall to the dining-room; had she really
meant him to accept that note of dismissal as final? or had it just been
written in a moment of petulance?
He had not meant to think about her; he had vowed to put her out of his
thoughts for ever, to let her see that he would not wear the willow for
her; and yet--oh, they were all very well, these fine resolves, but when
a chap was utterly--confoundedly down and out----
He found himself shaking hands with Christine's mother.
"Jimmy hasn't had any lunch," Christine was saying. "So I asked