"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 him he could not think. He met so many people in his rather aimless life it was impossible to remember them all.