The words were an evasion, but he did not notice it. He went back to
the stage box feeling as if the world had come to an end.

He forgot all about the Wyatts in the stalls below. Christine's brown
eyes turned towards him again and again, but he never once looked her
way. His attention was centered on the stage and the woman who played
there.

She was so beautiful he could never give her up, he told himself
passionately. With each moment her charm seemed to grow. He watched
her with despairing eyes; life without her was a crude impossibility.
He could not imagine existence in a world where he might not love her.
That other fellow--curse the other fellow!--he ground his teeth in
impotent rage.

The brute had deserted her years ago and left her to starve. He had
not the smallest claim on her How. By the time the play was ended
Jimmy Challoner had worked himself into a white heat of rage and
despair.

Christine Wyatt, glancing once more towards him as the curtain rose for
the final call, wondered a little at the tense, unyielding attitude of
his tall figure. He was standing staring at the stage as if for him
there was nothing else in all the world. She stifled a little sigh as
she turned to put on her cloak.

The house was still applauding and clamouring for Cynthia to show
herself again. Challoner waited. He loved to see her come before the
curtain--loved the little graceful way she bowed to her audience.