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 not be true.  But—­but now I know it is.  Oh, why don’t you say something—­anything?” she broke out passionately.

Challoner looked up.  “What can I say, if this is true?”

“It is true,” her face was flushed.  There was a hard look in her eyes as if she were trying to keep back tears.  After a moment she moved over to where he sat and laid a hand on his shoulder.

Jimmy Challoner turned his head and kissed it.

“Don’t take it so badly, Jimmy.  It’s—­it’s worse for me,” her voice broke.  A cleverer man than Jimmy Challoner might have heard the little theatrical touch in the words, but Jimmy was too genuinely miserable himself to be critical.

At the first sob he was on his feet.  He put his arms round her; he laid his cheek against her hair; but he did not kiss her.  Afterwards he wondered what instinct it was that kept him from kissing her.  He broke out into passionate protestations.

“I can’t give you up.  There must be some way out for us all.  You don’t love him, and you do care for me.  It can’t be true, it’s—­it’s some abominable trick to part us, Cynthia.”

“It is true,” she said again.  “It is true.”

She drew away from him.  She began to cry, carefully, so as not to spoil her make-up.  She hid her face in her hands.  Once she looked at him through her white fingers to see how he was taking it.  Jimmy Challoner was taking it very badly indeed.  He stood biting his lip hard.  His hands were clenched.