Through the half-open door he heard Bunty say in a dramatic whisper, “But he’s awful! You can’t go with him, Frankie! You simply can’t!”
He waited, his heart pounding, blood beating against his temples. Then the door opened, and she came out on to the sunlit landing.
She might have stepped out of her photograph, except she was smaller than he had imagined. She had a beautiful little figure that not even the severe pale blue linen dress could conceal. Her dark silky hair rested on her shoulders. Her smile was bright and sincere, and there was that look in her eyes that had had such an effect on him when he had seen her picture for the first time.
Her fresh young beauty paralyzed him, and he waited for her smile to fade and for disgust to come into her eyes, and his fingers tightened on the ice-pick.
But the smile didn’t fade; pleasure lit up her face as if she were really happy to see him. He stood there, staring at her, waiting for the change, and not believing it wouldn’t come.
“You must be Burt,” she said, coming to him and holding out her hand. “Terry said you were going to take his place. It’s sweet of you to have come at the last moment. I should have been sunk if you hadn’t come. I’ve been looking forward to this for days.”
His hand came out from inside his coat, leaving the ice-pick in its sheath. He felt her cool fingers slide into his hand and he looked down at her, watching her, waiting for the change, and then suddenly realizing with a sense of shock that it wasn’t coming.
II
The girl, Bunty, came out on to the landing, followed immediately by a tall, powerfully built young fellow with a crew haircut and a wide india-rubber grin. He was wearing a red-patterned shirt worn outside a pair of fawn slacks, and in his hand he carried a gay red-and-white striped hold-all.
Still holding Pete’s hand, Frances turned and smiled at Bunty.