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