Elsie, motionless, waited.
Never before in her life had she known this ecstasy of anticipation, so poignant as to be almost indistinguishable from pain.
When Leslie came back to her, she thought that she must fall, and instinctively caught at his arm for support.
Without speaking, he drew her away from the ring of light, into the deep shadow of a clump of trees. She stumbled against something in the sudden obscurity, and discerned the low railing that separated the ornamental shrubs and flower-beds from the crowded gravel paths.
“Come,” said Leslie’s voice in her ear, hoarsely. They stepped together over the little railing on to the grass. Another few steps, and they were in an isolation as complete as though a curtain had fallen between them and the seething mass of talking, laughing, swaying people in the gardens.
Even the sound of the band only reached them faintly as though from a great distance.
Leslie Morrison halted abruptly, and they faced one another, their eyes already accustomed to the semi-darkness.
By an impulse as inevitable as it was irresistible, they were in one another’s arms.
Neither spoke a word whilst that long throbbing embrace endured.
Through Elsie’s whole being flashed the wordless conviction: “This is what I’ve been waiting for....”