"Perhaps because she doesn't like me," he answered.

"Doesn't she?" Christine's grave eyes searched his face. "I like you,
anyway," she said.

Sangster did not look at her, but a little flush rose to his brow.

"Thank you," he said, and his voice sounded, somehow, quite changed.

As the curtain fell on the second act, he rose quietly from his seat
and went round to where Jimmy stood.

"Take my place," he said in an undertone. Jimmy looked up. He had not
been following the play; he had been thinking--thinking always of the
same thing, always of the past few weeks, and the shock of their ending.

He rose to his feet rather reluctantly. Sangster sat down beside Mrs.
Wyatt.

Once or twice he looked across to Christine. She and Jimmy were not
talking very much, but there was a little smile on Christine's face,
and she looked at Jimmy very often.

Jimmy sat with his chin in the palm of his hand, staring before him
with moody eyes. Sangster felt a sort of impatience. What the deuce
could the fellow ever have seen in Cynthia Farrow? he asked himself.
Was he blind, that he could not penetrate her shallowness, and see the
small selfishness of her nature?