"Go on," he said. "What is it you--you can't--can't tell me?"

But he knew already, knew before she told him with desperate candour.

"I can't marry you, Jimmy, I'm sorry, but--but I can't--that's all."

The silence fell again. Behind the closed door in the crowded theatre
the orchestra suddenly broke into a ragtime. Challoner found himself
listening to it dully. Everything felt horribly unreal. It almost
seemed like a scene in a play--this hot, crowded room; the figure of
the woman opposite in her expensive stage gown, and--himself!

A long glass on the wall opposite reflected both their figures. Jimmy
Challoner met his mirrored eyes, and a little wave of surprise filled
him when he saw how white he was. He pulled himself together with a
desperate effort. He tried to find his voice.

Suddenly he heard it, cracked, strained, asking a one-word question.

"Why?"

She did not answer at once. She had turned away again. She was
aimlessly opening and shutting a little silver powder-box lying amongst
the brushes and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remembered the
little clicking noise it made.

He could see nothing of her face. He made a sudden passionate movement
towards her.