"Who?"
"Father!"
"Splendid?"
"Yes; doesn't he look splendid to-night? Better looking than all the rest of the room put together?" (Johnny wasn't good-looking. Better than good-looking.)
"Oh--look splendid. Yes. He's a very handsome man."
Joan felt once again that little chill with which she was so often familiar when she talked with her mother--a sudden withdrawal of sympathy, a pushing Joan away with her hand.
But never mind--there was the music again, and here, oh, here, was Johnny! Someone had once called him Tubby in her hearing, and how indignant she had been! He was perhaps a little on the fat side, but strong with it.... She went off with him. The waltz began.
She sank into sweet delicious waters--waters that rocked and cradled her, hugged her and caressed her. She was conscious of his arm. She did not speak nor did he. Years of utter happiness passed....
He did not take her, as Mr. Forsyth had done, into the public glare of the passage, but up a crooked staircase behind the Minstrels' Gallery into a little room, cool and shaded, where, in easy-chairs, they were quite alone.
He was shy, fingering his gloves. She said (just to make conversation):