They waited, Elsie’s eyes at first dazzled, striving to find her sister’s form in the crowd. Every fibre of her being was acutely aware of the presence of Leslie Morrison, standing just behind her, so that her shoulder touched his breast. Without turning her head she put out her hand, and felt it clasped in his and held tightly. Her senses swam, and it was Geraldine’s own voice that first warned her of her sister’s approach. To her relief, Geraldine was talking to a strange young man. “Good-night,” she said amiably. “Good-night, and thanks so much for a pleasant evening,” he returned, raising his soft hat. Elsie compelled herself to speak. “Have you met a friend?” she enquired, with simulated interest. “Hallo! Where have you been, I should like to know? Isn’t it funny?--that’s a fellow who was at our place for nearly a month during the war. Belcher, his name is. He was the very one that kept the chair for me. Did you two get seats somewhere else?” “Yes,” said Elsie swiftly. “It was good, wasn’t it--the band I mean? Horace has missed something by staying at home.” Geraldine was evidently, and contrary to her wont, in high good humour. They walked back to the boarding-house, Leslie Morrison between the two girls, Geraldine openly hanging on to his arm. His other hand was out of sight in his pocket, Elsie’s warm, soft fingers locked in his. At the door they parted. “Good-night and sweet repose,” said Geraldine indifferently, but she waited for her sister to precede her into the lighted house. Elsie moved in a dream. It startled her when Geraldine, looking curiously at her under the glare of the electric light in the hall, said suddenly: “What’s the matter with you, Elsie? You look moon-struck, and your hair’s all over the place, half down your back.” “Is it?” Elsie put up her hands and pushed up the soft, loose mass under her veil again. “I’m going to bed,” she said, in a voice that sounded oddly in her own ears. “Tell Horace, will you? I’ve a splitting head.” She felt an unutterable longing to be in the dark, and alone with her new and overwhelming bliss. “You’re a nice one, I must say, leaving me alone all the evening, and then dashing off upstairs the minute we get in. I should think Horace would find something to say to you----” Elsie neither heard nor heeded. She ran upstairs and into the small double bedroom. It contained two beds, and for the first time since their marriage she and Horace had occupied separate ones. To-night Elsie felt that she could never be thankful enough for the comparative solitude that would enable her to feel herself free again. She tore off her thin summer clothes, shook down her cloud of hair, ran across the room in her nightdress to snap off the light, and then almost threw herself into bed. In the blessed darkness, Elsie lay with hands clasped over her throbbing heart, and relived every instant of the evening, thrilling to a happiness so intense that she felt as though she must die of it.