West telegraphed later on in the morning to Marian, saying that he would call in the evening on the chance that she would be free to dine with him and go on to a theater afterward, and Marian on her arrival from Brighton found the telegram awaiting her and welcomed it. Her stay at Rottingdean had rested her, had done good to her physically, but had sent her back thirsty for amusement. She had intended to write to West, but good fortune had brought him to her uncalled.
She dressed herself with peculiar care, and was ready for him when he arrived.
“By Jove, this is luck,” he said, “unless you’ve dressed to go out somewhere else? Don’t tell me that and turn a lonely man out on a lonely world.”
“No, I didn’t know what I was going to do with myself when I found your wire here. I only came up from Brighton to-day.”
“You’ve been down there? Well, where shall we go?”
“Anywhere, only somewhere where there are lots of people. I went down there for a change; I’ve come up here for a change.”
“Aren’t I change enough? There’s conceit! Here, slip on your cloak, and we’ll discuss our destination in the cab as we go along.”
Marian had chosen to go to the Gaiety and West had telephoned to the theater, being lucky enough to secure two good stalls. The first act was well under way when they entered the darkened theater, slipping quietly into their seats, amid the more or less skillfully disguised annoyance of their neighbors.
When the curtain fell, Marian looked round the well-dressed house, with its atmosphere of well-to-do-ness and good dinners. West noted the graceful curves of the arm as she held up her opera-glasses, and when she laid them down on her lap and turned to him, noticed, too, how brightly her eyes shone and how well her flushed cheeks became her.
“You do love pleasure, don’t you?” he said.