“Poor Jim,” laughed Eileen, “he takes life so strangely; at times tremendously seriously; at others as if it meant nothing at all. Now he plays the solemn and mysterious, and again he assumes the rôle of the irresponsible harlequin. I don’t think anyone really understands Jim Langford.”
“I don’t think anyone does,” agreed Phil.
“Are you awfully anxious that we should dance this next waltz?” she asked, suddenly changing the subject.
“Why?” asked Phil, a little crestfallen.
“I should like to have a little stroll in the fresh air, if you don’t mind. It is dreadfully warm in here and I have been dancing continuously. Do you mind?”
“Not at all!” said Phil.
He helped her with her cloak. She put her arm through his and they went out into the open air together.
It was eleven o’clock. The street lights went out suddenly, leaving everything in inky blackness.
It was a night with a shudder in it.