Jimmy had smiled grimly over that part of the message; it was hard luck that the Great Horatio should only shell out now, when—when—he pulled up his thoughts sharply; he tried to remember that he was already almost as good as a married man; he had no right to be thinking of another woman; he was going to marry Christine.
The door opened; Costin reappeared.
"Please, sir—a lady to see you."
"What!"
Jimmy stared incredulously. "A lady to see me? Rot! It's some mistake——"
"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.