They waited, Elsie’s eyes at first dazzled, striving to find her sister’s form in the crowd. Every fibre of her being was acutely aware of the presence of Leslie Morrison, standing just behind her, so that her shoulder touched his breast.
Without turning her head she put out her hand, and felt it clasped in his and held tightly.
Her senses swam, and it was Geraldine’s own voice that first warned her of her sister’s approach.
To her relief, Geraldine was talking to a strange young man.
“Good-night,” she said amiably.
“Good-night, and thanks so much for a pleasant evening,” he returned, raising his soft hat.
Elsie compelled herself to speak. “Have you met a friend?” she enquired, with simulated interest.
“Hallo! Where have you been, I should like to know? Isn’t it funny?—that’s a fellow who was at our place for nearly a month during the war. Belcher, his name is. He was the very one that kept the chair for me. Did you two get seats somewhere else?”
“Yes,” said Elsie swiftly.
“It was good, wasn’t it—the band I mean? Horace has missed something by staying at home.”