“So that he’d know he was an officer,” said Jimmy. “So that he’d remember all his past life. You see, Lizzie, your Bill is really Sir Peter Staunton—whom we all thought had been killed in the war.”
“Sir Peter Staunton!” she repeated dazedly. “Gawd!”
“He was engaged, Lizzie,” he went on quietly, and he heard her breath come quick—“engaged to that lady.” He pointed to a picture of Sybil on the mantelpiece.
“No one wouldn’t look at me with ’er about,” said the girl thoughtfully.
“She loved him very dearly, Lizzie—even as he loved her. I don’t think I’ve ever known two people who loved one another quite so much. And——” for a moment Jimmy faltered, then he went on steadily: “I ought to know in this case, because I’m engaged to her now.”
And because the Cockney brain is quick, she saw—and understood.
“So if yer doctor friend succeeds,” she said, “she’ll give yer the chuck?”
“Yes, Lizzie,” answered Jimmy gravely, “she’ll give me the chuck.”
“And yer love ’er? Orl right, old sport. I can see it in yer face. Strikes me”—and she gave a little laugh that was sadder than any tears—“strikes me you ’anded out the dirty end of the stick to both of us when you come round that street to-day.”
“Strikes me I did, Lizzie,” he agreed. “But, you see, I’ve told you this because I want you to understand that we’re both of us in it—we’ve both of us got to play the game.”