by and allow other men to
shower presents on her.

He let her go and walked over to the table where the flowers lay. He
was still frowning. Across the room Cynthia Farrow watched him rather
anxiously.

A magnificent cluster of orchids lay side by side with his own bouquet
of roses; he bent and looked at the card; a little flush crept into his
cheek.

"Mortlake again! I hate that fellow. It's infernal cheek of him to
send you flowers when he knows that you're engaged to me----"

He looked round at her. She was standing leaning against the littered
dressing-table, eyes down-cast.

There was a moment of silence, then; Challoner went back and took her
in his arms.

"I know I'm a jealous brute, but I can't stand it when these other
fellows send you things."

"You promised me you wouldn't mind."

"I know, but--oh, confound it!" A faint tap at the door was followed
by the entrance of a dresser. Challoner moved away.

"After the first act, then," he said.

"Yes." But she did not look at him.

He went away disconsolately and round to the stage box. He was
conscious of a faint depression. Cynthia had not been pleased to see
him--had not been expecting him. Something was the matter. He had
vexed her. What had she written to him about, he wondered?

He looked round the house anxiously. It was well filled and his brow
cleared. He hated Cynthia to have to play to a poor house--she was so
wonderful!

A lady in the stalls below bowed to him. Challoner stared, then
returned the bow awkwardly.

Who the dickens was she, he asked himself?

She was middle-aged and grey-haired, and she had a girl in a white
frock sitting beside her.

They were both looking up at him and smiling. There was something
eagerly expectant in the girl's face.

Challoner felt embarrassed. He was sure that he ought to know who they
were, but for the life of him he could not think. He met so many
people in his rather aimless life it was impossible to remember them
all.

His eyes turned to them again and again. There was something very
familiar in the face of the elder woman--something---- Challoner knit
his brows. Who the dickens----

The lights went down here, and he forgot all about them as the curtains
rolled slowly up on Cynthia's first act.

Challoner almost knew the play by heart, but he followed it all
eagerly, word by word, as if he had never seen it before, till the big
velvet curtains fell together again, an