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."