The figure
turned.
It was Morris. The two men looked at one another for an instant, then
Morris, still like a shadow, vanished swiftly into the dusk.
Chapter III
Saturday, June 19: The Ball
Joan was in her hedroom preparing for the Ball. It was now only half-past
six and the Ball was not until half-past nine, but Mr. Mumphit, the
be-curled, the be-scented young assistant from the hairdresser's in the
High Street had paid his visit very early because he had so many other
heads of so many other young ladies to dress in Polchester that evening.
So Joan sat in front of the long looking-glass, a towel still over her
shoulders, looking at herself in a state of ecstasy and delight.
It was wrong of her, perhaps, to feel so happy--she felt that deep in her
consciousness; wrong, with all the trouble in the house, Falk gone in
disgrace, her father unhappy, her mother so strange; but to-night she
could not help herself. The excitement was spluttering and crackling all
over the town, the wonderful week upon which the whole country was
entering, the Ball, her own coming-out Ball, and the consciousness that He
would be there, and, even though He did love another, would be sure to
give her at least one dance; these things were all too strong for her--she
was happy, happy, happy--her eyes danced, her toes danced, her very soul
danced for sheer delirious joy.
Pages:
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503
504
505
506
507
508
509
510
511
512
513
514
515
516
517
518
519