Elsie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. Only three o’clock—two hours and a quarter before she could think of starting out.
The telephone rang again, and Elsie, with a joyful hope that Morrison had been unable to resist a further word, snatched at the instrument.
“Hallo, hallo! Who’s there?”
“I am—Horace,” said her husband’s flat, nasal voice. “Look here. How would you like to go to the play to-night, Elsie?”
“What!” said Elsie, disappointed at not hearing Leslie Morrison’s voice again, and still dazed from the scene of the morning.
“I said, how would you like to do a theatre to-night? I’ve got tickets for ‘The Girl on the Pier’—good places—for to-night.”
She understood at last that he was seeking to propitiate her, and to make up for his violence. “I don’t mind. What time does it start?”
“Half-past eight, but we’d better meet in town somewhere for some food. I shan’t have time to come home first. What about the Corner House, at about seven o’clock? That’ll give us plenty of time to go on to Shaftesbury Avenue afterwards.”
“All right. How many tickets have you got, Horace?”
“Just the two. I thought you and I would go by ourselves and have a jolly evening,” said the far-away voice rather tremulously.