The Second Honeymoon | Page 4

now, shaking her head. "And you?" she asked. "Are you
married?"
Challoner said "No" very quickly. He wondered whether he ought to
tell them about Cynthia. The thought reminded him of his promise to
go to her after the first act. He rose hastily to his feet.
"I quite forgot. I've got an appointment. If you'll excuse me, I'll come
back, if I may."
He bowed himself off. Christine's beautiful eyes followed him
wistfully.
"I never thought he'd be half so good-looking when he grew up," she
said. "And yet somehow he hasn't altered much, has he?"
"He hasn't altered in manner in the least," Mrs. Wyatt laughed. "Fancy
him remembering about your perfect man, Christine? We must ask him
to dinner one night while we are in London. How funny, meeting him
like this. I always liked him so much. I wonder he hasn't got married,
though--a charming boy like that!" But her voice sounded as if she
were rather pleased to find Challoner still a bachelor.
"I don't know why he should be married," Christine said. "He's not very
old--only twenty-seven, mother."
"Is that all? Yes, I suppose he is--the time goes so quickly."
Challoner, meanwhile, had raced off to the back of the stage. He could

not imagine how on earth he had even for one second forgotten his
appointment. He was flushed with remorse and eagerness when he
reached Cynthia's room.
A dresser was retouching her hair. Challoner waited impatiently till
Cynthia sent her away. It occurred to him that she was deliberately
detaining her. He bit his lip.
But at last she was dismissed, and the door had hardly closed before he
stepped forward.
"Darling!" his eager arms were round her. "Are you angry with me?
Did you think I had forgotten? I met some old friends--at least, they
spotted me from the stalls and sent a note, and, of course, I had to go
and speak to them."
She was standing rather stiffly within the circle of his arms.
"You're not wild with me?" he asked in a whisper. "I'm so sorry. If you
knew how badly I wanted to see you."
He kissed her lips.
She was singularly unresponsive, though for a moment she let her head
rest against his shoulder. Then she raised it and moved away.
"Jimmy, I want to talk to you. No, stay there," as he made a little eager
movement to follow. "Stay there; I can't talk to you if you won't be
sensible."
"I am sensible." Challoner dragged up a chair and sat straddled across it,
his arms on the back, looking at her with ardent eyes. She kept her own
averted. She seemed to find it hard to begin what it was she wanted to
say. She stood beside the dressing-table absently fingering the trinkets
lying there. Among them was a portrait of Challoner in a silver frame.
The pictured eyes seemed to be watching her as she stood trying to
avoid the human ones. With sudden exasperation she turned.

"Jimmy, you'll hate me--you'll--oh, why didn't you get my letter?" she
broke out vehemently. "I explained so carefully, I----" she stopped.
There was a little silence. Challoner rose to his feet. He was rather
white about the lips. There was a dawning apprehension in his eyes.
"Go on," he said. "What is it you--you can't--can't tell me?"
But he knew already, knew before she told him with desperate candour.
"I can't marry you, Jimmy, I'm sorry, but--but I can't--that's all."
The silence fell again. Behind the closed door in the crowded theatre
the orchestra suddenly broke into a ragtime. Challoner found himself
listening to it dully. Everything felt horribly unreal. It almost seemed
like a scene in a play--this hot, crowded room; the figure of the woman
opposite in her expensive stage gown, and--himself!
A long glass on the wall opposite reflected both their figures. Jimmy
Challoner met his mirrored eyes, and a little wave of surprise filled him
when he saw how white he was. He pulled himself together with a
desperate effort. He tried to find his voice.
Suddenly he heard it, cracked, strained, asking a one-word question.
"Why?"
She did not answer at once. She had turned away again. She was
aimlessly opening and shutting a little silver powder-box lying amongst
the brushes and make-up. All his life Jimmy Challoner remembered the
little clicking noise it made.
He could see nothing of her face. He made a sudden passionate
movement towards her.
"Cynthia, in God's name why--why?"
He laid his hands on her shoulders. She wriggled free of his touch. For
an instant she seemed to be deliberately weighing something in her

mind. Then at last she spoke.
"Because--because my husband is still living."
"Still--living!" Jimmy Challoner echoed the words stupidly. He passed
a hand over