She was not alone; half a dozen theatrical people, most of whom Jimmy
knew personally, were lounging about her luxuriously furnished boudoir.
They were all cheery people, whom Jimmy liked well enough as a general
thing, but to-day their chatter bored him; he hardly knew how to
contain himself for impatience. He made up his mind that he would stay
as long, and longer than they did--that wild horses should not drag him
away till he had spoken with Cynthia alone.

She was very kind to him. It might have struck a disinterested
observer that she was a little afraid of him--a little anxious to
propitiate him; but none of these things crossed Jimmy's mind.

He adored her, and she knew it; he would do anything in the world for
her, and she must know that too. Why, then, should she be in the very
least afraid of him?

He found himself talking to an elderly woman with dyed hair, who had
once been a famous dancer. She was pleasant enough company, but she
had not yet realised that her youth was a thing of the past. She ogled
Jimmy as if she had been eighteen, and simpered and giggled like a girl.

She was the last of them all to leave. It struck Jimmy that Cynthia
had purposely asked her to stay, but he could not be sure. Anyway, it
did not matter to him. He meant to stay there all night or until he
had spoken with her alone.

As soon as the door had closed on the rustling skirts of the dancer's
juvenile frock, Jimmy rushed over to where Cynthia was sitting.