“Who? Who?” they cried.
But neither Jim nor Josephine would vouchsafe an answer.
The next was the long interval. Jim and Josephine gazed down at the orchestra. The musicians were laying aside their instruments and rising. The ugly fire-curtain began slowly to descend. Jim suddenly bolted out.
“Is it that man Aaron Sisson?” asked Robert.
“Where? Where?” cried Julia. “It can't be.”
But Josephine's face was closed and silent. She did not answer.
The whole party moved out on to the crimson-carpeted gangway. Groups of people stood about chatting, men and women were passing along, to pay visits or to find drinks. Josephine's party stared around, talking desultorily. And at length they perceived Jim stalking along, leading Aaron Sisson by the arm. Jim was grinning, the flautist looked unwilling. He had a comely appearance, in his white shirt—a certain comely blondness and repose. And as much a gentleman as anybody.
“Well!” cried Josephine to him. “How do you come here?”
“I play the flute,” he answered, as he shook hands.
The little crowd stood in the gangway and talked.