The Second Honeymoon | Page 2

there,
as indeed he was. The doorkeeper bade him a respectful good evening,
and asked no questions as he went on and up the chill stone passage.
At the top a door on the right was partly open. A bar of yellow light
streamed out into the passage. A little flush crept into Challoner's
youthful face. He passed a hand once more nervously over the
refractory kink before he went forward and knocked.
A preoccupied voice said, "Come in."
Challoner obeyed. He stood for a moment just inside the door without
speaking.
It was not a very large room, and the first impression it gave one was

that it was frightfully overcrowded.
Every chair and table seemed littered with frocks and furbelows. Every
available space on the walls was covered with pictures and photographs
and odds and ends. The room was brilliantly lit, and at a dressing-table
strewn with make-up boxes and a hundred and one toilet requisites, a
girl was reading a letter.
At first glance she looked very young. She was small and dainty, with
clearly cut features and beautiful hair, the most beautiful hair in all the
world Jimmy Challoner thought for the thousandth time as he stood in
the doorway looking across at her with his foolish heart in his eyes. She
seemed to feel his gaze, for she turned sharply. Then she drew in her
breath hard, and hurriedly thrust the letter away in a drawer as she rose
to her feet.
"You!" she said; then, "Jimmy, didn't--didn't you get my letter?"
Challoner went forward. His confident smile had faded a little at the
unusual greeting. It was impossible not to realise that he was not
exactly welcome.
"No, I haven't had a letter," he said rather blankly. "What did you write
about? Is anything the matter?"
She laughed rather constrainedly. "No--at least, I can't explain now."
Her eyes sought his face rather furtively. "I'm in a hurry. Come round
after the first act, will you?--that's the longest interval. You won't mind
being sent away now, will you? I am due on almost directly."
She held her hand to him. "Silly boy! don't frown like that."
Challoner took the hand and drew her nearer to him. "I'm not going till
you've kissed me."
There was a touch of masterfulness in his boyish voice. Cynthia Farrow
half sighed, and for a moment a little line of pain bent her brows, but
the next moment she was smiling.

"Very well, just one, and be careful of the powder."
Challoner kissed her right on the lips. "Did you get my flowers? I sent
roses."
"Yes, thank you so much, they are lovely."
She glanced across the room to where several bouquets lay on the table.
Challoner's was only one of them.
That was what he hated--having to stand by and allow other men to
shower presents on her.
He let her go and walked over to the table where the flowers lay. He
was still frowning. Across the room Cynthia Farrow watched him
rather anxiously.
A magnificent cluster of orchids lay side by side with his own bouquet
of roses; he bent and looked at the card; a little flush crept into his
cheek.
"Mortlake again! I hate that fellow. It's infernal cheek of him to send
you flowers when he knows that you're engaged to me----"
He looked round at her. She was standing leaning against the littered
dressing-table, eyes down-cast.
There was a moment of silence, then; Challoner went back and took her
in his arms.
"I know I'm a jealous brute, but I can't stand it when these other fellows
send you things."
"You promised me you wouldn't mind."
"I know, but--oh, confound it!" A faint tap at the door was followed by
the entrance of a dresser. Challoner moved away.
"After the first act, then," he said.

"Yes." But she did not look at him.
He went away disconsolately and round to the stage box. He was
conscious of a faint depression. Cynthia had not been pleased to see
him--had not been expecting him. Something was the matter. He had
vexed her. What had she written to him about, he wondered?
He looked round the house anxiously. It was well filled and his brow
cleared. He hated Cynthia to have to play to a poor house--she was so
wonderful!
A lady in the stalls below bowed to him. Challoner stared, then
returned the bow awkwardly.
Who the dickens was she, he asked himself?
She was middle-aged and grey-haired, and she had a girl in a white
frock sitting beside her.
They were both looking up at him and smiling. There was something
eagerly expectant in the girl's face.
Challoner felt embarrassed. He was sure that he ought to know who
they were, but for the life of