He handed the tea for Christine, and sat beside her, screening her a little from Jimmy’s worried eyes.  How was she feeling? he was asking himself jealously.  Was she glad to see her husband, or did she feel as he did—­that Jimmy’s unexpected presence had spoilt for them both an hour which neither would easily have forgotten?

“How is your brother?” he asked Jimmy presently.  “I haven’t heard from him just lately.  I suppose he has thought no more of coming home?  He has talked of it for so long.”

Jimmy roused himself with an effort.  He had not touched his tea, and he had given the cake he had mechanically taken to Christine’s terrier.  He looked at her now, and quickly away again.

“He is on his way home,” he said shortly.

There was a little silence.  Christine’s face flushed; her eyes grew afraid.

“On his way home—­the Great Horatio?”

Jimmy’s nickname for his brother escaped her unconsciously.  Jimmy smiled faintly.

“Yes; I heard last night.  I—­I believe he arrives in England on Monday.”

It was Kettering who broke the following silence.

“I shall be glad to see him again.  He will be surprised to hear that I have come across you and Mrs. Challoner.”  He spoke to Jimmy, but his whole attention was fixed on the girl at his side.  He had seen the sudden stiffening of her slim little figure, the sudden nervous clasp of her hands.

And then the door opened and Gladys Leighton walked into the room.  She looked straight at Kettering, and he met her eyes with a sort of abashed humiliation.  He rose to his feet to offer her his chair.  Jimmy rose also.  He and Gladys shook hands awkwardly.

“Well, I didn’t expect to see you,” said Gladys bluntly.  She glanced at Christine.

“None of us expected to see him,” said Jimmy’s wife, rather shrilly.  “The Great Horatio is on his way home.  I suppose he has come down to tell us the news.”  Her voice sounded flippant.  Jimmy was conscious of a sharp pang as he listened to her.  He hardly recognised Christine in this girl who sat there avoiding his eyes, avoiding speaking to him unless she were obliged.

Once she had hung on his every word; once she had flushed at the sound of his step; but now, one might almost have thought she was Kettering’s wife instead of his.

He hated Kettering.  He looked at him with sullen eyes.  He thought of what Sangster had said of this man—­that he was always at Upton House; that he seemed very friendly with both the girls.  A vague jealousy filled Jimmy’s heart.  Kettering was rich, whilst he—­well, even the small allowance sent to him by his brother looked now as if it were in danger of ceasing entirely.

If the Great Horatio knew that he and Christine were practically separated; if the Great Horatio ever knew the story of Cynthia Farrow, Jimmy Challoner knew that it would be a very poor lookout for him indeed.