Elsie said:
“It has been a treat. You really are a sight for sore eyes, René. I never thought you would grow into such a handsome man. I do wish George didn’t have to go to that office. It makes him so pasty.”
“Let me know when you have a birthday,” said René, “and you shall have another tailor-made.”
“It’s next week,” said Elsie innocently.
“Right you are. You shall have it.”
. . . . . .
At last he was in the train. No sleep this time. Derby, Leicester, Nottingham, the hills by Elstree, London. A taxi took him hot speed to the hostel. Cathleen was not yet back from her work. Lotta met him with a grave face. She had had a terrible time with Ann, who had alternated between a dog-like gratitude to herself and harsh defiance of Cathleen and all the other young women of the hostel. The situation had been impossible. To appease her she was allowed to see his letter, and after a few hours’ brooding on it—not without tears—she had demanded the twenty pounds. With that, apparently, she had cabled to Joe and Rita and another friend in Canada, had packed up her boxes, stolen away early in the morning, and got on board at Southampton, whither she had been traced.
“Poor little Ann,” said René.
“I told you she had courage.”
“She has that. To go out to a new life——”