And there was Mr.
Morris coming up to speak to her. Kind of him. But he _was_ a kind
man. She liked him. Very shy, though. All the nicest people seemed to be
shy--except Johnny, who wasn't shy at all.
The music stopped and, breathless, they stayed for a moment before finding
two chairs. Now was coming the time that she so greatly disliked. Whatever
to say to Mr. Forsyth?
They sat down in the long passage outside the ballroom. The floor ran like
a ribbon from under their feet into dim shining distance. Or rather, Joan
thought, it was like a stream, and on either side the dancers were
sitting, dabbling their toes and looking self-conscious.
"Do you like it where you are?" Joan asked of the shining black silk
waistcoat that gleamed beside her.
"Oh, you know...." neighed Mr. Forsyth. "It's all right, you know. The old
Bishop's kind enough."
"Bishop Clematis?" said Joan.
"Yes. There ain't enough to do, you know. But I don't expect I'll be there
long. No, I don't.... Pity poor Morrison at Pybus dying like that."
Joan of course at once understood the allusion.
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