she was not worth a thought. She had never been worth loving.

She was a heartless, scheming woman; little Christine Wyatt had more
affection in the clasp of her hand than Cynthia had in the whole of her
beautiful body.

The thought of Christine recalled Sangster's words.

Sangster was a fool; he did not know what he was talking about.
Christine and he had been sweethearts as children certainly, but that
anything more could ever exist between them was absurd.

But he began to remember the little flush that always crept into
Christine's face when she saw him, the expression of her beautiful
eyes; and the memory gave him back some of his lost self-confidence.
Christine liked him, at all events; Christine would never have behaved
as Cynthia had done . . . Christine. . . . Jimmy Challoner hailed a
passing taxi, and gave the address of the hotel where Christine and her
mother were staying.

His desire for sympathy drove him there; his desire to be with someone
who liked his company. He was bruised all over by the treatment he had
received from Cynthia Farrow; he wanted balm poured on his wounds.

The hall porter told him that Mrs. Wyatt was out, but that he thought
the young lady----

"It's Miss Wyatt I wish to see," said Jimmy impatiently.

After a moment he was asked to come upstairs. He knew the Wyatts had a