"Don't be an ass, Jimmy; I haven't known you all these years for
nothing. . . . Is it true that Cynthia's chucked you?"

"Yes." Jimmy's voice was hard. He stared up at the ceiling under
scowling brows.

Sangster said "Humph!" with a sort of growl. He scratched his chin
reflectively.

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry," he said after a moment. "It's the best
thing that's ever happened to you, my son."

Jimmy's eyes travelled down from the ceiling slowly; perhaps it was
coincidence that they rested on the place on the mantelshelf where
Cynthia's portrait used to stand.

"Think so?" he said gruffly. "You never liked her."

"I did--but not as your wife. . . . She's much more suited to Henson
Mortlake--I always thought so. He'll keep her in order; you never
could have done."

Jimmy had been standing with his elbow on the mantelpiece; he swung
round sharply.

"Mortlake; what's he got to do with it?" he asked fiercely. "What the
deuce do you mean by dragging him in? It was nothing to do with
Mortlake that she--she----"