Mr. Sinclair's best smile and most correct bow was suddenly in
evidence.
"Mademoiselle Violet!" he exclaimed to a lady who came in alone, "we
are enchanted. We feared that you had deserted us. There is a young
gentleman inside who is going to be made very happy. One shilling
change, thank you. Won't you step into the cloak room?"
The lady shook her head.
"If you don't mind, Mr. Sinclair," she said, "I would rather keep my
hat and veil on. I can only stay for a few minutes. Is Mr. Richardson
here, do you know? Ah! I can see him."
She stepped past the Professor into the little dancing hall. A young
lady was pounding upon a piano, a boy at her side was playing the
violin. A few couples were dancing, but most of the company was
looking on. The evening was young, and Mr. Sinclair, who later on
officiated as M.C., had not yet made his attack upon the general
shyness. The lady known as Mademoiselle Violet paused and looked
around her. Suddenly she caught sight of a pale, anemic-looking youth,
who was standing apart from the others, lounging against the wall. She
moved rapidly towards him.
"How do you do, Mr. Richardson?" she said, holding out her hand.
He started, and a sudden rush of color streamed into his cheeks. He
took her hand awkwardly, and he was almost speechless with
nervousness.
"I don't believe you're at all glad to see me!" she remarked.
"Oh! Miss Violet!" he exclaimed.
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