“TROUSERS!” she whispered. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. “It is rather odd,” he said, “but I always thought that your name was Annabel and hers Anna. And I heard ‘Alcide’ sing, and that little dance she did. A slow horror was dawning in his fixed eyes. “But why, Lucy? Who is it 145 that you are trying to hide from? John?” Lucy closed her eyes in earnest. Almost light-heartedly.
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