“It’s simply impossible,” he said sternly. “The spread is a private one, and I haven’t even my own ticket here; I’ve lost it.”
The note of irritation and despair in his voice was overheard by a fellow in a cap and gown who had come up behind them just then, on his way into the Pudding.
“That doesn’t make any difference, Beverly,” he said, touching his cap to the lady; “you can come in with me all right.” Beverly turned in anguish. It was Freddy Benson, who was helping to give the spread. Billy’s cousin became strangely radiant; she darted a glance at Freddy that impaled him. Beverly, she not only impaled, but crucified.
“I haven’t time to go in,” said Beverly abruptly. He was beginning to look flushed and obstinate. Freddy opened his eyes in polite astonishment; he was afraid he had intruded upon a family quarrel. The Millstone edged half way up the Pudding steps and pouted coyly. They stood there a moment,—Beverly, dangerous, explosive; Freddy, mystified and uncomfortable; the Millstone, with her “lady fair” expression once more, as if waiting expectantly for one of the stalwart males to defeat the other in mortal combat and claim her for his own. People brushed by them—people Beverly knew—with glances of concern.
“You might just as well come in, you know,” said Freddy, pacifically.
“You don’t understand,” answered Beverly, angrily.
“Just for a minute,—I promise,” chimed in the Millstone; “we may find my cousin in here,” she added. That possibility hadn’t occurred to Beverly; it was quite likely that Billy would be there at that hour. So he set his teeth and went up the steps. Freddy passed them before the big, white-gloved policeman at the door, and they pushed through the crowd in the vestibule. After a parting flutter of the eyelids at Freddy, Billy’s cousin looked up at Beverly in fond disapproval.
“Naughty, naughty,” she said.
The crush in the theatre of the Pudding was appalling on so warm an afternoon. But Beverly surveyed it with an exultant smile. Once separated from Billy’s cousin in that jam of people, escape would be easy, pursuit impossible.
“Now follow me,” he commanded, dexterously wriggling away from the arm that sought his. He meant to lead the Millstone to the corner of the room farthest away from the exit, and there, among the palms surrounding the orchestra, “wander” her like a cat in a strange wood.