They were in the street, and in the piercing whiteness of electric light. The air was very crisp, and she welcomed its cold touch upon her cheeks. There were taxicabs and newspaper sellers and loitering people; and a huge omnibus went heavily by. Crowds were thinner than they had been early in the evening, but every face was whitened by the light, bleached to the colourless gravity of a kinema film. Above, very distant in the most lovely of blue night skies, was the moon, silver to the eye, very pure and remote. Patricia looked up at the moon, smiling her love for it, so much did that silent shape draw wonder from her heart; and in doing this she unconsciously moved into Harry's path. He took her arm for an instant's guidance, and, as they approached the crossing of Piccadilly, he retained his hold. It was all nothing, and she was free again when they reached the other side of the street; but the protection had been so natural that it gave her pleasure. She walked by Harry's side with a thousand beautiful little memories and emotions and imaginings making what she knew to be happiness in her heart.
And then they were at Topping's; and she could hear the band. Other young people stood about on the broad stairs—fluffy-haired girls and well-groomed young men, all with that curious excited expression in their eyes which went with late hours and noise and nervous exhaustion. Patricia felt her feet begin to catch the strongly marked rhythm, and went quickly to change her shoes and leave her coat. She was out again upon the stairs before Harry had returned; and stood there listening, her breast rising and falling rather fast, a piquant figure, both light and graceful, so fresh in that brilliant light that she drew the attention of all who were near.
She was still waiting when two people came down the stairs from the street towards her, both cloaked and muffled against the cold. For an instant she did not recognise them; but as Monty took off his hat and moved away to the men's cloak-room Patricia was recalled to memory with a start. Evidently Monty had not seen her. Swiftly she looked at the on-coming figure of his companion. A cold greeting was exchanged, surprise rather than pleasure being obviously the emotion upon both sides. Patricia followed the newcomer with her eyes until she was hidden; and her brain was engaged with a problem.
Monty. Monty ... and Blanche Tallentyre. How strange.
v
Patricia was not allowed further time to ponder this singular meeting, for Harry was once again at her elbow. He had not seen Monty, but was eager to be dancing. They descended the remaining stairs. There was a good deal of noise, not only from the band, but from the dancers and, even more, from those who were still dining in that part of the very large room which was set apart for the purpose. Patricia could see that girls and men were at many of the small tables, smoking and drinking, and that it was the custom for them to leave their places in order to dance and to resume them when the music stopped. She had a few moments to examine the throng; for exactly at the instant of their arrival the band quickened its pace for the end of the dance which she had heard in progress. Couples dispersed, and there was a crowded and dishevelled scene which took her breath away. All sorts of girls in all sorts of dresses and coiffures filled her eyes; all sorts of—no, there was not such variety in the young men. They did not surprise her, for they seemed to be men such as she might have known all her life. The uniformity of costume, also, made many of them indistinguishable. Everywhere there was an atmosphere of excitement such as she herself was feeling. She was dazzled and delighted. A new ichor seemed to run in her veins. It was some weeks since she had danced, and this place was so much more attractive than the suburban halls and rooms she had known that the surroundings appeared to Patricia ideal. For a moment she was almost timid in the face of such terrific energy, such fizz and glitter; but as soon as the band began to blare out a favourite fox-trot Patricia lost all timidity. New elasticity ran through her body: she was thrilling to the finger-tips. She was aware of Harry's hands—one clasping her own, the other lightly and firmly at her waist; of the ease of his step, the certainty of his command; and she yielded herself completely to the dance.
"It's all right," Harry murmured in Patricia's ear. "Perfect. Knew it would be."
He was able at last to hold Patricia within his arm, to be conscious of her dangerously charming proximity, to speak close to her radiant eyes, to employ the tone and glance which could no longer mar or frighten away the prospect of this manœuvred evening. He was in a familiar land, dealing with familiar emotions and opportunities, supremely content.
Patricia's face lighted up with a mischievous and unsuspecting smile. She could not read his more sophisticated satisfaction, but she was wholly spirited in her own.