She held her hand to him.  “Silly boy! don’t frown like that.”

Challoner took the hand and drew her nearer to him.  “I’m not going till you’ve kissed me.”

There was a touch of masterfulness in his boyish voice.  Cynthia Farrow half sighed, and for a moment a little line of pain bent her brows, but the next moment she was smiling.

“Very well, just one, and be careful of the powder.”

Challoner kissed her right on the lips.  “Did you get my flowers?  I sent roses.”

“Yes, thank you so much, they are lovely.”

She glanced across the room to where several bouquets lay on the table.  Challoner’s was only one of them.

That was what he hated—­having to stand 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——­