It was late July, and between Elsie and her employer a curious, secret relationship had been established, at present only symbolised by occasional furtive touches of his hand on her neck or her dress, and a continual exchange of glances, steady and compelling on Williams’s side, and responded to by Elsie almost against her own will.
Her typewriting table had been moved into his office, and she sat there nearly all day.
He spoke to her very little, but she was now always intensely conscious of his presence, and of her own effect upon him.
At first she did not understand to what his questions about the holidays were leading.
Next day, he spoke about them again.
“Shouldn’t you like to go to Brighton—some place like that?”
“Rather.”
“I often run down there myself from Saturday to Monday.”
Mr. Williams looked at her more attentively than ever, and Elsie felt the blood creep up into her face. She knew that she blushed easily and deeply, and that men enjoyed seeing her blush.
“That hasn’t got anything to do with me,” she stammered, at once excited and confused.