How could he sit there next to that child and not realise that in his longing he was only grasping at a shadow?  What was he made of that he saw more beauty in Cynthia Farrow’s blue eyes than in the sweet face of his boyhood’s love?

Sangster was glad when the play was over; theatres always bored him.  He did not quite know why he had invited himself to Jimmy’s box to-night.  When they rose to leave he smiled indulgently at Christine’s rapt face.

“You have enjoyed it,” he said.

“Yes—­ever so much.  But I liked Miss Farrow and the play she was in better.”

Jimmy turned sharply away; nobody answered.

“We’re going on to Marnio’s to supper,” Jimmy said as they crossed the foyer.  “Christine has never been there.”

She looked up instantly.

“No, I haven’t.”

“It’s the place to see stage favourites,” Sangster told her.

In his heart he was surprised that Jimmy should choose to go there.  He thought it extremely probable that Cynthia Farrow and some of her numerous admirers would put in an appearance; but it was not his business, and he raised no objection.

When they entered the long room he cast a swift glance round.  She was not here yet, at all events; one could only hope that she would not come at all.

Everything was new and wonderful to Christine.  She was like a child in her delight.  She sat in a corner of one of the great, softly cushioned sofas, and looked about her with wide eyes.

Jimmy sat beside her.  Sangster had manoeuvred that he should.  He and Mrs. Wyatt were opposite.

The orchestra was playing a dreamy waltz.  The long room was brilliantly lit, and decorated with pink flowers.

Christine leaned across and squeezed her mother’s hand.

“Oh, isn’t it just too lovely?” she said.

Mrs. Wyatt laughed.

“You will turn Christine’s head, Jimmy,” she said to Challoner.  “She will find Upton House dull after all this gaiety.”

Jimmy was slightly bored.  It was no novelty to him.  He had spent so many nights dining and supping in similar places to Marnio’s.  All the waiters knew him.  He wondered if they were surprised to see him without Cynthia Farrow.  For weeks past he and she had been everywhere together.  He met Sangster’s quizzical eyes; he roused himself with an effort; he turned to Christine and began to talk.

He told her who some of the people were at the other tables.  He pointed out a famous conductor, and London’s most popular comedian.  Christine was interested in everyone and everything.  Her eyes sparkled, and her usually pale face was flushed.  She was pretty to-night, if she had never been pretty before.

“I suppose you come here often?” she said.  She looked up into Jimmy’s bored young face.  “I suppose it’s not at all new or wonderful to you?”

He smiled.

“Well, I’m afraid it isn’t; you see——­” He broke off; he sat staring across the room with a sudden fire in his eyes.