"Odd you should ask that," he remarked. "I do feel sort of queer
to-night--as though I'd been ill, or something of the sort. There are
so many things I can only half remember--at least I remember the things
themselves, but the part I took in them seems so odd. Kind of feeling
as though I'd been masquerading in another chap's clothes," he added,
with an uneasy little laugh. "I don't half like it."
"Tell me," she persisted, "did you really find the music tiresome?"
He nodded.
"Rather," he confessed. "The Chocolate Soldier is my idea of music. I
like something with a tune in it. There's been no one to beat Gilbert
and Sullivan. I don't know who wrote this Samson and Delilah, but he
was a dismal sort of beggar, wasn't he? I like something cheerful.
Don't you want to come and have some supper, Edith? I know a place
where they play all the popular music."
"No, thank you," she told him gravely.
"You seem so cold and sort of stand-offish to-night," he complained,
coming a little closer to her. "Some of those nights down at your
place--can't remember 'em very well but I am jolly sure you were
different. What's happened? Mayn't I hold your fingers, even?"
His arm would have been around her waist, but she evaded it firmly.
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