not look as if she had been crying very bitterly.

"That's my call. I shall have to go. Don't keep me now. I'll write,
Jimmy. I'll see you again."

"You promise me that, whatever happens?"

"I promise." He caught her fingers and kissed them. "Darling, I'll come back for you when the show's over. I can't bear to leave you like this. You do love me?"

"Do you need to ask?"

The words were an evasion, but he did not notice it. He went back to the stage box feeling as if the world had come to an end.

He forgot all about the Wyatts in the stalls below. Christine's brown eyes turned towards him again and again, but he never once looked her way. His attention was centered on the stage and the woman who played there.

She was so beautiful he could never give her up, he told himself passionately. With each moment her charm seemed to grow. He watched her with despairing eyes; life without her was a crude impossibility. He could not imagine existence in a world where he might not love her. That other fellow—curse the other fellow!—he ground his teeth in impotent rage.

The brute had deserted her years ago and left her to starve. He had not the smallest claim on her How. By the time the play was ended Jimmy Challoner had worked himself into a white heat of rage and despair.

Christine Wyatt, glancing once more towards him as the curtain rose for the final call, wondered a little at the tense, unyielding attitude of his tall figure. He was standing staring at the stage as if for him there was nothing else in all the world. She stifled a little sigh as she turned to put on her cloak.

The house was still applauding and clamouring for Cynthia to show herself again. Challoner waited. He loved to see her come before the curtain—loved the little graceful way she bowed to her audience.

But to-night he waited in vain, and when at last he pushed his way round to the stage door it was only to be told that Miss Farrow had left the theatre directly the play was over.

Challoner's heart stood still for a moment. She had done this deliberately to avoid him, he was sure. He asked an agitated question.

"Did she—did she go alone?"

The doorkeeper answered without looking at him, "There was a gent with her, sir—Mr. Mortlake, I think."

Challoner went out into the night blindly. He had to pass the theatre to get back to the main street. Mrs. Wyatt and Christine were just entering a taxi. Christine saw him. She touched his arm diffidently as he passed.

"Jimmy!"

Challoner pulled up short. He would have avoided them had it been at all possible.

Mortlake! she had gone with that brute, whilst he—he answered Mrs.
Wyatt mechanically.

"Thanks—thanks very much. I was going to walk, but if you will be so kind as to give me a lift."

He really hardly knew what he was saying. He took off his hat and passed a hand dazedly across his forehead before he climbed into the taxi and found himself sitting beside Christine.

He forced himself to try to make conversation. "Well, and how did you enjoy the play?"

It was a ghastly effort to talk. He wondered if they would notice how strange his manner was.

"Immensely," Mrs. Wyatt told him. "I've heard so much about Cynthia
Farrow, but never seen her before. She certainly is splendid."

"She's the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," said Christine.

Challoner shot her a grateful look. Most women were cats and never had a word of praise for one of their own sex. He felt slightly comforted.

"If you've nothing better to do, Jimmy," said Mrs. Wyatt, "won't you come back to the hotel and have some supper with us? We are only up in town for a fortnight. Do come if you can."

Challoner said he would be delighted. He was very young in some ways. He had not the smallest intention of calling on Cynthia that night. He wished savagely that she could know what he was doing; know that in spite of everything he was not breaking his heart for her.

She was with that brute Mortlake; well, he was not going to spend the next hour or two alone with only his thoughts for company.

He wondered where Cynthia had gone, and if she had known all along that
Mortlake was calling for her. He ground his teeth.

The two women were talking together. They did not seem to notice his silence. Christine's voice reminded him a little of Cynthia's; a sudden revulsion of feeling flooded his heart.

Poor darling! all this was not her fault. No doubt she was just as miserable as he. He longed to go to her. He wished he had not accepted the Wyatts' invitation. He felt that it was heartless of him to have done so. He would have excused himself even now if the taxi had not already started.

Mrs. Wyatt turned to him. "I suppose you are very fond of theatres?"

"Yes—no—yes, I mean; I go to heaps." He wondered if his reply sounded very foolish and absent-minded. He rushed on to cover it. "I've seen this particular play a dozen times; it's a great favourite of mine. I—I'm very keen on it."

"I think it is lovely," said Christine dreamily.

She was leaning back beside him in the corner. He could only see her white-gloved hands clasped in the lap of her frock.

"You must let me take you to some," he said. He had a rotten feeling that if he stopped talking for a minute he would make a fool of himself. "I often get passes for first nights and things," he rambled on.

Christine sat up. "Do you! oh, how lovely! I should love to go! Jimmy, do you—do you know any people on the stage—actors and actresses?"

"I know some—yes. I know quite a lot."

"Not Miss Farrow, I suppose?" she questioned eagerly.

"Yes—yes, I do," said Challoner.

She gave a little cry of delight. "Oh, I wish I could meet her—she's so beautiful."

Challoner could not answer. He would have given worlds had it been possible to stop the cab and rush away; but he knew he had got to go through with it now, and presently he found himself following Mrs. Wyatt and Christine through the hall of the hotel at which they were staying.

"It's quite like old times, isn't it?" he said with an effort. "Quite like the dear old days at Upton House. Don't I wish we could have them again."

"The house is still there," said Mrs. Wyatt laughing. "Perhaps you will come down again some day."

Challoner did not think it likely. There would be something very painful in going back to the scene of those days, he thought. He was so much changed from the light-hearted youngster who had chased Christine round the garden and pulled her hair because she would not kiss him.

He looked at her with reminiscent eyes. There was a little flush in her pale cheeks. She looked more like the child-sweetheart he had so nearly forgotten.

Mrs. Wyatt had moved away. He and Christine were alone. "I used to kiss you in those days, didn't I?" he asked, looking at her. He felt miserable and reckless.

She looked up at him with serious eyes. "Yes," she said almost inaudibly.

Something in her face stirred an old emotion in Jimmy Challoner's heart. This girl had been his first love, and a man never really forgets his first love; he leaned nearer to her.