At the door he encountered Mrs. Dobson.
“So sorry, I must run, Mrs. Dobson,” he said, holding out his hand.
“Oh, I am sorry, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc. Can’t you wait till the end? Joan will be so disappointed not to see you.”
“Oh, thank you. The fact is—” Leclerc stopped, looking a little embarrassed. But Mrs. Dobson did not notice this and ran on—
“And what did you think of the concert, Mr.—er—Captain Leclerc?”
The musician’s professional conscience forbade a complimentary reply.
“It was very bad,” he said, “except the old Frenchman. That woman had no business to sing in public, and as for those youths who call themselves artists—why aren’t they in the trenches?” And hastily touching Mrs. Dobson’s hand, he slipped away: the expression in her rubicund face was pained as she gazed after him.
After the concert had come to an end and the guests had gradually dispersed, Lady Whigham and Mrs. Dobson counted up the money and discussed how much each performer should receive. This tête-à-tête with Lady Whigham was what Mrs. Dobson most enjoyed the whole afternoon. Meanwhile Clara drew Joan aside.
“Congratulate me, dearest,” she whispered. “I’m going to marry Captain Leclerc.”