"Quite right; she is my wife."

But as it was----

"Let him think what he likes. I don't care a hang," was the thought in
Jimmy Challoner's mind.

He sat there with his chin drooping on his breast, lost in unhappy
thought.

It was not yet two days since Cynthia had sent him away; it seemed an
eternity.

Did she miss him at all? did she ever wish she could see him? ever wish
for one hour out of the happy past? Somehow he did not think so. Much
as he had loved her, Jimmy Challoner had always known hers to be the
sort of nature that lived solely for the present; besides, if she
wanted him, she had only got to send--to telephone. He looked across
at the receiver standing idle on his desk.

So many times she had rung him up; so many times he had heard her
pretty voice across the wire:

"Is that you, Jimmy boy?"

He would never hear it again. She did not want him any more. He
was--ugly word--jilted!

Jimmy writhed in his chair. That any woman should dare to so treat
him! The hot blood surged into his face.