“I am, or I shouldn’t have come with you,” she replied bluntly.
“Do you dislike me, then?” he asked, with a kind of injured dignity.
“Oh no—oh, don’t let’s talk seriously. I tell you I don’t feel serious to-night.”
“Well, you won’t need to be. We’re going to have a very jolly evening.”
“I hope so. That’s why I came. I feel like having a jolly evening.”
The Forest Hotel occupied a fine position on the crest of a thickly-wooded hill overlooking one of the prettiest spots in Epping Forest. A large balcony opened on to the dining-room, which was on the first floor, and Chinese lanterns swung loosely from the ornamental pilasters. As Catherine caught sight of the table, a vista of white and silver and gleaming glass, she clapped her hands ecstatically. She was as a little child in her enthusiasm.
“Oh, fine—fine!” she cried, clutching George once more by the arm.
The table was on the balcony, and inside the dining-room the floor had been cleared, presumably for dancing. A sleek grand piano sprawled across one corner. Catherine rushed up to it and immediately plunged into some rapid, noisy piece. It was a splendid instrument, and the dim light (only the swaying lanterns on the balcony were lit) threw her into rapture. George came to her side, watching in admiration. Watching rather than listening, because, as he had himself admitted, he was no judge of music. And also because the red glow from the swinging lanterns kindled her hair like a puff of wind on smouldering charcoal.
“There!” she cried, triumphant, as she executed something difficult with her left hand. She swung into a dirge-like melody, tired of it seemingly, and broke into energetic ragtime. George felt it was in some way inappropriate to play ragtime at such a moment.
“Let’s come out on to the balcony,” he suggested, “we’ve only got a quarter of an hour or so before the others come.”