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!