They were hurrying toward the distant medley of sound. Flaring naptha lamps gave the village street a Rembrandt effect. Love-making couples, with arms entwined, were coming away from the glare of the booths. Their forms cast long shadows on the white road.
“Ten shillings!” gasped Martin. “Whatever do we want with ten shillings?”
“To enjoy ourselves, you silly. You can’t have any fun without money. Why, when mamma dines at the Savoy and takes a party to the theater afterwards, it costs her as many pounds. I know, because I’ve seen the checks.”
“That has nothing to do with it. We can’t spend ten shillings here.”
“Oh, can’t we? You leave that to me. Mais, voyez-vous, imbécile, are you going to be nasty?” She halted and stamped an angry foot.
“No, I’m not; but——”
“Then come on, stupid. I’m late as it is.”
“The stalls remain open until eleven.”
“Magnifique! What a row there’ll be if I have to knock to get in!”
Martin held his tongue. He resolved privately that Angèle should be home at nine, at latest, if he dragged her thither by main force. The affair promised difficulties. She was so intractable that a serious quarrel would result. Well, he could not help it. Better a lasting break than the wild hubbub that would spring up if they both remained out till the heinous hour she contemplated.