“Lucky!” Elsie echoed the word drearily. “You and I aren’t amongst the lucky ones, boy. I don’t see how things are ever going to come right for us, without a miracle happens.”
“He—Williams—may ... he may die.”
“Not he!” said Elsie bitterly. “There’s nothing the matter with him. All this talk about indigestion is stuff and nonsense—just fads he’s got into his head. There’s nothing wrong with Horace. And it’s always the ones who aren’t wanted that live on and on. But how am I going to bear it, after this wonderful time we’ve been having?” She began to cry.
“Elsie, don’t, darling! I’ll think of a way. There must be some way out.”
Leslie took her in his arms and she forgot everything else.
On the last evening they all went to the theatre together, and it was there, for the first time seeming awake to the situation, that Horace Williams, sitting at the end of the row of stalls, suddenly leaned across Geraldine and looked long and balefully at his wife.
She felt herself changing colour.
Morrison, however, observed nothing. He talked only to Elsie, looked only at her during the interval, and whilst the play was in progress and the lights in the theatre lowered, his hand sought and held hers.
“Elsie, we can’t part like this. How can I see you alone?”
“We can’t—not here. But Horace starts at the office again on Wednesday, and he’s there all day. Come to the house.”