Jimmy raised his hat. He was very pale; his mouth was set in unsmiling lines.
"Oh, she is lovely!" said Christine eagerly. "I think she is even prettier off the stage than she is on, don't you? Actresses so seldom are, but she—oh, don't you think she is beautiful, Jimmy?"
"Yes," said Challoner. He hated himself because he could get nothing out but that monosyllable; hated himself because of the storm of emotion the sight of Cynthia had roused in his heart.
She had looked calm and serene enough; he wondered bitterly if she ever thought of the hours they had spent together, the times he had kissed her, the future they had planned. He set his teeth hard.
And apparently the fact that her husband still lived was no barrier to her walking with Mortlake. He hated the little bounder. He——
"Who was that with her?" Christine asked. "I didn't like the look of him very much. I do hope she isn't going to marry him."
"She's married already," said Jimmy. He felt a sort of impatience with
Christine; she was so—so childish, so—so immaturish, he thought.
"And do you know her husband?" she asked. She turned her beautiful eyes to his pale face.
"I've never seen him," said Jimmy. "But I should think he's a brute from what I've heard about him. He—he—oh, he treated her rottenly."
"What a shame!" Christine half turned and looked after Cynthia Farrow's retreating figure. "Jimmy, wouldn't you be proud of such a beautiful wife?"