“Torquay is a first-rate place,” declared Leslie Morrison enthusiastically. “I was there once on business, and I quite made up my mind to return one day.”
“Thanks very much, Elsie,” Geraldine said rather coldly. “It’s a long journey, isn’t it, and I’m a wretched traveller, as you know.”
“Please yourself. Horace wants a thorough change, and we’re sick of Wales. We’ve been there every year ever since we were married.”
“Come, I don’t suppose that makes much of a total, does it?” Morrison gallantly remarked, looking at Elsie.
“More than you’d think for, perhaps. I was caught young—eighteen, if you want to know.”
“Elsie,” said her mother abruptly, “have you been to see your aunties lately?”
She directed the conversation so that no more personalities were possible, until Elsie rose and said good-bye.
“Allow me,” said Morrison, as he helped her to put on her coat.
Elsie fumbled for the sleeve-hole until she felt the guiding pressure of his fingers on her arm.
“Thanks ever so much. Well, good-bye, Mr. Morrison. Let me know if you come up our way any time.”