At half-past seven that night the iron pier was a varied and animated scene. A band was playing a waltz on the circle at the end; young people were dancing, other young people of both sexes were promenading, lines of yet younger people, chiefly girls in short frocks, but with the wagging heads and sparkling eyes of one type of budding maidenhood, were skipping along arm-in-arm, singing snatches of the words set to the waltz, and beating a half-dancing time with an alternate scrape and stroke of the soles of their shoes upon the wood floor on which they walked. The odor of the brine came up from below and mingled with the whiffs of Mona Bouquet that swept after the young girls as they passed, and with the puffs of tobacco smoke that enveloped the young men as they dawdled on. Sometimes the revolving light of the lightship in the channel could be seen above the flash and flare of the pier lamps, and sometimes the dark water under foot gleamed and glinted between the open timbers of the pier pavement, and sometimes the deep rumble of the sea could be heard over the clash and clang of the pier band.
Lovibond was there, walking to and fro, feeling himself for the first time to be an old fellow among so many younger folks, watching the clock, counting the minutes, and scanning every female form that came alone with the crink-crank-crick through the round stile of the pay-gate.
Not until five minutes to eight did the right one appear, but she made up for the tardiness of her coming by the animation of her spirits.
“I couldn’t get away sooner,” whispered Jenny. “She watched me like a cat. She’ll be out in the grounds by this time. It’s delicious! But is he coming!”
“Trust him,” said Lovibond.
“O, dear, what a meeting it will be!” said Jenny.
“I’d love to be there,” said Lovibond.
“Umph! Would you? Two’s company, three’s none—you’re just as well where you are,” said Jenny.
“Better,” said Lovibond.
The clock struck eight in the tower.