Catherine was dreamily conscious that something tense was going to happen.
“It doesn’t always work,” she whispered, vaguely, “some sticklebacks like it.” ... She bent her head slightly to the right to circumvent the obstruction of Mr. Mole’s shiny hairless head. To Freddie McKellar it seemed that this time, instead of his ear touching her hair, her hair had performed the more positive act of brushing against his ear. The difference, though subtle, was not to be ignored.
“Now,” cried Mr. Weston, brandishing aloft his jar with the stickleback inside it either dead or drunk or in some way incapacitated for further movement, “if the effect of this foul spirit upon this tiny animal is ...”
“There’s refreshments afterwards, ain’t there?” said Freddie, sotto voce.
“Yes,” she whispered, hoarsely. The tragedy of the dying stickleback, “butchered to make a Roman holiday,” had made her unwontedly solemn.
... “Now,” proceeded Mr. Weston, “if somebody will kindly lower the lights, I will show you on the screen some of the effects of strong drink.... First of all, perhaps you would care to have a look at a drop of whisky as it is seen through the lens of a microscope....”
The lights went out in successive “pops.”
Freddie McKellar’s left hand slowly closed over Catherine’s right one.
“Ugh,” said Catherine, presumably at the horrible picture on the screen. Then the thought came to her (she had had no experience of such matters)—“He must be flirting with me.”
Simultaneously there came to Freddie McKellar (who, for his age, had had considerable experience of such matters) the thought: “She must be flirting with me.”