A pretty face and laugh, and an undoubted knowledge of men--they were
all the assets she possessed; and Sangster knew it. But to
Jimmy--Sangster metaphorically shrugged his shoulders as he looked at
his friend's moody face.

How could he sit there next to that child and not realise that in his
longing he was only grasping at a shadow? What was he made of that he
saw more beauty in Cynthia Farrow's blue eyes than in the sweet face of
his boyhood's love?

Sangster was glad when the play was over; theatres always bored him.
He did not quite know why he had invited himself to Jimmy's box
to-night. When they rose to leave he smiled indulgently at Christine's
rapt face.

"You have enjoyed it," he said.

"Yes--ever so much. But I liked Miss Farrow and the play she was in
better."

Jimmy turned sharply away; nobody answered.

"We're going on to Marnio's to supper," Jimmy said as they crossed the
foyer. "Christine has never been there."

She looked up instantly.

"No, I haven't."

"It's the place to see stage favourites," Sangster told her.