again. Behind the closed door in the crowded theatre
the orchestra suddenly broke into a ragtime. Challoner found himself
listening to it dully. Everything felt horribly unreal. It almost
seemed like a scene in a play--this hot, crowded room; the figure of
the woman opposite in her expensive stage gown, and--himself!

A long glass on the wall opposite reflected both their figures. Jimmy
Challoner met his mirrored eyes, and a little wave of surprise filled
him when he saw how white he was. He pulled himself together with a
desperate effort. He tried to find his voice.

Suddenly he heard it, cracked, strained, asking a one-word question.

"Why?"

She did not answer at once. She had turned away again. She was
aimlessly opening and shutting a little silver powder-box lying amongst
the brushes and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remembered the
little clicking noise it made.

He could see nothing of her face. He made a sudden passionate movement
towards her.

"Cynthia, in God's name why--why?"

He laid his hands on her shoulders. She wriggled free of his touch.
For an instant she seemed to be deliberately weighing something in her
mind. Then at last she spoke.

"Because--because my husband is still living."

"Still--living!" Jimmy Challoner echoed the words stupidly. He passed
a hand over his eyes. He felt dazed. After a moment he laughed. He
groped backwards for a chair and dropped into it.

"Still--living! Are you--are you _sure_?"

So it was not that she did not love him. His first thought was one of
utter relief--thank God, it was not that!

She put the little silver box down with a sort of impatience. "Yes,"
she said. She spoke so softly he could hardly catch the monosyllable.

Challoner leaned his head in his hands. He was trying desperately to
think, to straighten out this hopeless tangle in his brain, but
everything was confused.

Of course, he knew that she had been married before--knew that years
and years ago, before she had really known her own mind, she had
married a man--a worthless waster--who had left her within a few months
of their marriage. She had told him this herself, quite
straightforwardly. Told him, too, that the man was dead.

And after all he was still living!

The knowledge hammered against his brain, but as yet he could not
realise its meaning. Cynthia went on jerkily.

"I only knew--yesterday. I wrote to you. I--at first I thought it
could n