"Nothing but wait. He is going to
America. It is a terrible country for accidents. Something may happen
to him there! Do go and change your things, there's a dear, and look
in at the Westinghams' for me for an hour. We'll just get some supper
and come away."
"I will be ready in ten minutes," Barrington answered. He understood
that he was to ask no questions, nor did he. But all the time his man
was hurrying him into his clothes, his brain was busy weaving fancies.
PROFESSOR SINCLAIR'S DANCING ACADEMY
Mr. Sinclair, or as he preferred to be called, Professor Sinclair,
waved a white kid glove in the direction of the dancing hall.
"This way, ladies and gentlemen!" he announced. "A beautiful valse
just about to commence. Tickets, if you please! Ah! Glad to see you,
Miss Cullingham! You'll find--a friend of yours inside!"
There was a good deal of giggling as the girls came out from the
little dressing room and joined their waiting escorts, who stood in a
line against the wall, mostly struggling with refractory gloves. Mr.
Sinclair, proprietor of the West Islington Dancing Academy, and host
of these little gatherings--for a consideration of eighteenpence--did
his best, by a running fire of conversation, to set everyone at their
ease. He wore a somewhat rusty frock coat, black trousers, a white
dress waistcoat, and a red tie. Evening dress was not DE RIGUEUR! The
money at the door, and that everyone should behave as ladies and
gentlemen, were the only things insisted upon.
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