They watched the screen for a while, not speaking. Presently, however, she whispered: “I wish I could, to-night. I’d rather be with you. I’ve waited so long.... And now—I can’t! And I’m heartbroken, Mr. Annan.”
He was beginning to realise that the candour of this girl held an unsuspected but unmistakable charm for him. He said under his breath:
“I’ll drive you home when this is over. We can plan things then.”
“I can’t, Mr. Annan. Mr. Smull has offered to drive me home.”
A disagreeable sensation—the same indefinite feeling—dismissed with a slight shrug;—and suddenly, subtly, this girl’s position and his own slipped into the reverse. Now it was he who seemed to have waited so long for a chance to talk to her,—he who was becoming impatient.
“Can you give me to-morrow evening, Eris?”
“Oh, I’m sorry! There is another party. I promised Betsy to go with her.”
“Is Mr. Smull perpetually giving parties?” he demanded.
“It’s somebody else. I don’t remember who. Mr. Smull is taking Betsy and me.”
“Have you any time at all to give me this week?” he inquired, the slightest hint of sarcasm in his pretended amusement.