Geraldine was evidently, and contrary to her wont, in high good humour.
They walked back to the boarding-house, Leslie Morrison between the two girls, Geraldine openly hanging on to his arm. His other hand was out of sight in his pocket, Elsie’s warm, soft fingers locked in his.
At the door they parted.
“Good-night and sweet repose,” said Geraldine indifferently, but she waited for her sister to precede her into the lighted house.
Elsie moved in a dream. It startled her when Geraldine, looking curiously at her under the glare of the electric light in the hall, said suddenly:
“What’s the matter with you, Elsie? You look moon-struck, and your hair’s all over the place, half down your back.”
“Is it?” Elsie put up her hands and pushed up the soft, loose mass under her veil again. “I’m going to bed,” she said, in a voice that sounded oddly in her own ears. “Tell Horace, will you? I’ve a splitting head.”
She felt an unutterable longing to be in the dark, and alone with her new and overwhelming bliss.
“You’re a nice one, I must say, leaving me alone all the evening, and then dashing off upstairs the minute we get in. I should think Horace would find something to say to you——”
Elsie neither heard nor heeded.