He read his brother's closely written pages now with a long-suffering air. Jimmy hated writing letters, and he hated receiving them; most things bored him in these days; he had been drifting for so long, and under Cynthia Farrow's tuition he would very likely have finally drifted altogether into a slack, nothing-to-do man about town, very little good to himself or anyone else. Horatio Ferdinand wrote:-- DEAR JAMES,-- (He hated abbreviations; he would never allow people to call him "Horace"; his writing was cramped and formal like himself.) I have heard a rather disquieting rumour about you from a mutual friend, and shall be glad if you will kindly write to me upon receipt of this letter and inform me if there is any truth in the allegation that you are constantly seen in the company of a certain actress. I hardly think this can be so, as you well know my dislike of the stage and anything appertaining thereto. My health is greatly improved by my visit here, and all being well I shall probably risk making the return voyage after Christmas. Upon second consideration, I shall be glad if you will cable your reply to me, as the mail takes six weeks, as you know.--Your affectionate brother. Jimmy crushed the letter in his hand. "Damned old idiot!" he said under his breath. He got up, and began striding about the room angrily. The tassels of his dressing-gown swung wildly at each agitated step; the big carpet slippers he wore flapped ungracefully. "Confounded old fathead." Jimmy was flushed, and his eyes sparkled. He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stand on end. After a few strides he felt better. He went back to the armchair and took up his brother's letter once more. After a moment he laughed, rather a sore laugh, as if something in the stilted wording of the letter hurt him. What would he not have given now to be able to cable back: "Quite right; she is my wife." But as it was---- "Let him think what he likes. I don't care a hang," was the thought in Jimmy Challoner's mind. He sat there with his chin drooping on his breast, lost in unhappy thought. It was not yet two days since Cynthia had sent him away; it seemed an eternity. Did she miss him at all? did she ever wish she could see him? ever wish for one hour out of the happy past? Somehow he did not think so. Much as he had loved her, Jimmy Challoner had always known hers to be the sort of nature that lived solely for the present; besides, if she wanted him, she had only got to send--to telephone. He looked across at the receiver standing idle on his desk. So many times she had rung him up; so many times he had heard her pretty voice across the wire: "Is that you, Jimmy boy?" He would never hear it again. She did not want him any more. He was--ugly word--jilted! Jimmy writhed in his chair. That any woman should dare to so treat him! The hot blood surged into his face.