Mortlake was calling for her. He ground his teeth.

The two women were talking together. They did not seem to notice his
silence. Christine's voice reminded him a little of Cynthia's; a
sudden revulsion of feeling flooded his heart.

Poor darling! all this was not her fault. No doubt she was just as
miserable as he. He longed to go to her. He wished he had not
accepted the Wyatts' invitation. He felt that it was heartless of him
to have done so. He would have excused himself even now if the taxi
had not already started.

Mrs. Wyatt turned to him. "I suppose you are very fond of theatres?"

"Yes--no--yes, I mean; I go to heaps." He wondered if his reply
sounded very foolish and absent-minded. He rushed on to cover it.
"I've seen this particular play a dozen times; it's a great favourite
of mine. I--I'm very keen on it."

"I think it is lovely," said Christine dreamily.

She was leaning back beside him in the corner. He could only see her
white-gloved hands clasped in the lap of her frock.

"You must let me take you to some," he said. He had a rotten feeling
that if he stopped talking for a minute he would make a fool of
himself. "I often get passes for first nights and things," he rambled
on.

Christine sat up. "Do you! oh, how lovely! I should love to go!