Jack was strangely calm as he took out his keys and unlocked a cabinet over his desk. He silently handed his friend a photograph.
"By Jove, what a lovely face!" muttered Jimmie.
"That is the best and dearest girl in the world," said Jack. "I thought I was done with women until I met her, a short time ago. We love each other, and we were to be married in September. And now—My God, this will break her heart! It has broken mine already, Jimmie! Curse the day I first put foot in Paris!"
"My poor old chap, this is—"
That was all Jimmie could say. He vaguely realized that he was in the presence of a grief beyond the power of words to comfort. There was a suspicious moisture in his eyes as he turned abruptly to the table and mixed himself a mild stimulant. He drank it slowly to give himself time to think.
Jack thrust the photograph into the breast pocket of his coat. He rubbed one hand through his hair, and kicked an easel over. He burst into a harsh, unnatural laugh.
"This is a rotten world!" he cried. "A rotten world! It's a stage full of actors, and they play d—— little but tragedy! I've found my long-lost wife again, Jimmie! Rejoice with me!"
He poured three fingers of neat brandy into a glass and drank it at a gulp. Then the mocking laughter died on his lips, and he threw himself into a chair. He buried his face in his hands, and his body shook with the violence of the sobs he was powerless to stifle.
"It will do him good," thought Jimmie.
The clock ticked on, and at intervals there was the rumble of trains passing to and from Ravenscourt Park station, and the clang of distant tram-bells. The voice of mighty London mocked at Jack's misery, and he conquered his emotions. He lifted a defiant face, much flushed.