And at the same time Gladys Stockwell nudged Bessie Millar and whispered: “Just look at Cathie Weston and Freddie McKellar ... at their age, too....” (Gladys was twenty-three and unbeautiful.)
In the refreshment room afterwards Catherine and Freddie sat together on a bench munching ham-sandwiches. You were only expected to take one ham-sandwich, but Catherine had already taken three and Freddie five. The caretaker was stoking up the fire at the other side of the room.
“Ain’t you two goin’ ter join in the Musical Chairs?” he remarked, contemplatively, “they’ve started ’em in the other room.”
Freddie took another ham-sandwich.
“I don’t feel extra like Musical Chairs,” he replied.
The caretaker grinned and shuffled out with the empty coke-scuttle. It was precisely at that moment that Catherine began to dislike the scent of Freddie’s lavishly spread hair-oil....
Catherine thought: “I don’t think I like him at all. I wonder if he knows it was me who chalked up on the fence, ‘Freddie McKellar is a soppy fool.’ ... ’Cos he is one, really....”
And then suddenly Freddie had an unfortunate inspiration.
He put his arm round her neck and touched her cheek. In an instant she was up and flaring and standing before him.
“What on earth did you do that for?” she cried, passionately; “I don’t want your smelly fingers on me!” (“Smelly fingers” was an attribute she bestowed on everybody she disliked.)