The other man stopped him with a gesture.
"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——"