Jimmy Challoner gave a last look at his immaculate figure, took up his coat and gloves and went out.

He called a taxi and gave the address of the suburban theatre before he climbed in out of the chilly night and sat back in a corner.

Jimmy Challoner was quite young, and very much in love; so much in love that as yet he had not penetrated the rouge and grease-paint of life and discovered the very ordinary material that lies beneath it.  The glare of the footlights still blinded him.  Like a child who is taken for the first time to a pantomime, he did not realise that their brilliance is there in order to hide imperfections.

He was so perfectly happy that he paid the driver double fare when he reached the theatre.  An attentive porter hurried forward.

Just at the moment Jimmy Challoner was very well known in that particular neighbourhood; he was generous with his tips for one thing, and for another he had a cheery personality which went down with most people.

He went round to the stage door as if he were perfectly at home there, as indeed he was.  The doorkeeper bade him a respectful good evening, and asked no questions as he went on and up the chill stone passage.

At the top a door on the right was partly open.  A bar of yellow light streamed out into the passage.  A little flush crept into Challoner’s youthful face.  He passed a hand once more nervously over the refractory kink before he went forward and knocked.

A preoccupied voice said, “Come in.”

Challoner obeyed.  He stood for a moment just inside the door without speaking.

It was not a very large room, and the first impression it gave one was that it was frightfully overcrowded.

Every chair and table seemed littered with frocks and furbelows.  Every available space on the walls was covered with pictures and photographs and odds and ends.  The room was brilliantly lit, and at a dressing-table strewn with make-up boxes and a hundred and one toilet requisites, a girl was reading a letter.

At first glance she looked very young.  She was small and dainty, with clearly cut features and beautiful hair, the most beautiful hair in all the world Jimmy Challoner thought for the thousandth time as he stood in the doorway looking across at her with his foolish heart in his eyes.  She seemed to feel his gaze, for she turned sharply.  Then she drew in her breath hard, and hurriedly thrust the letter away in a drawer as she rose to her feet.

“You!” she said; then, “Jimmy, didn’t—­didn’t you get my letter?”

Challoner went forward.  His confident smile had faded a little at the unusual greeting.  It was impossible not to realise that he was not exactly welcome.

“No, I haven’t had a letter,” he said rather blankly.  “What did you write about?  Is anything the matter?”

She laughed rather constrainedly.  “No—­at least, I can’t explain now.”  Her eyes sought his face rather furtively.  “I’m in a hurry.  Come round after the first act, will you?—­that’s the longest interval.  You won’t mind being sent away now, will you?  I am due on almost directly.”