"No, sir, begging your pardon, sir," said Costin stolidly. "It's--if
you please, sir, it's Miss Farrow."

Jimmy stood immovable for a moment, then he turned round slowly and
mechanically, almost as if someone had taken him by his shoulders and
forced him to do so.

"Miss--Farrow!" he echoed Costin's apologetic utterance of Cynthia's
name expressionlessly. "Miss--Farrow . . ." The colour rushed from
his brow to chin; his heart began to race just as it used to in the old
days when he had called to see her, and was waiting in her pink
drawing-room, listening to the sound of her coming steps on the landing
outside. After a moment:

"Ask--ask her to come in," he said.

He turned back to the mirror; mechanically he passed a hand over the
refractory kink in his hair; he looked at his tie with critical eyes;
he wished there had been time to shave, he wished--and then he forgot
to wish anything more at all, for the door had opened, and Cynthia
herself stood there.

She was beautifully dressed; he realised in a vague sort of way that
she had never looked more desirable, and yet for the life of him he
could not have told what she was wearing, except that there was a big
bunch of lilies tucked into the bosom of her gown.

She held out her hands to him; she was smiling adorably.