V.
“I see, Mr. Thorold,” said Geraldine Rainshore, “that you are about to ask me for the next dance. It is yours.”
“You are the queen of diviners,” Cecil replied, bowing.
It was precisely half-past nine on Thursday evening, and they had met in a corner of the pillared and balconied salle de danse, in the Kursaal behind the concert-hall. The slippery, glittering floor was crowded with dancers—the men in ordinary evening dress, the women very variously attired, save that nearly all wore picture-hats. Geraldine was in a white frock, high at the neck, with a large hat of black velvet; and amidst that brilliant, multicoloured, light-hearted throng, lit by the blaze of the electric chandeliers and swayed by the irresistible melody of the “Doctrinen” waltz, the young girl, simply dressed as she was, easily held her own.
“So you’ve come back from Brussels?” Cecil said, taking her arm and waist.
“Yes. We arrived just on time for dinner. But what have you been doing with father? We’ve seen nothing of him.”
“Ah!” said Cecil mysteriously. “We’ve been on a little voyage, and, like you, we’ve only just returned.”
“In the Claribel?”
He nodded.
“You might have waited,” she pouted.