could hardly wonder seeing that Cynthia--bless her heart!--was at
present playing lead in one of the suburban theatres, and that at that
very moment a pass for the stage box reposed happily in an inner pocket
of his coat.

Cynthia was fast making a name for herself. In his adoring eyes she
was perfect, and in his blissful heart he was confident that one day
all London would be talking about her. Her photographs would be In
every shop window, and people would stand all day outside the pit and
gallery to cheer her on first nights.

When he voiced these sentiments to Cynthia herself, she only laughed
and called him a "silly boy"; but he knew that she was pleased to hear
them all the same.

Jimmy Challoner gave a last look at his immaculate figure, took up his
coat and gloves and went out.

He called a taxi and gave the address of the suburban theatre before he
climbed in out of the chilly night and sat back in a corner.

Jimmy Challoner was quite young, and very much in love; so much in love
that as yet he had not penetrated the rouge and grease-paint of life
and discovered the very ordinary material that lies beneath it. The
glare of the footlights still blinded him. Like a child who is taken
for the first time to a pantomime, he did not realise that their
brilliance is there in order to hide imperfections.

He was so perfectly happy that he paid the driver double fare when he
reached the theatre. An attentive porter hurried forward.