She was early, that was it. Look
how she had hurried. No wonder that she was early. And great ladies
were always late: she had learnt that from the _Daily Mail_ stories.
"Two an' two make four--them too late an' me too early!" she said to
herself, with a gallant effort after her own brisk way of taking
things, a surer tap of heels on the stone floor as she turned towards a
swing-door to her left; pushed it open, and was hit in the face by what
seemed like a thick black curtain.
A dim white-gloved hand was thrust through it and took her ticket.
"Mind you don't fall--no good wasting the lights until they come--if
ever they does come," exhorted and explained a voice out of the
darkness; for, after all, it was not a curtain, but just darkness.
At first Jenny could see nothing. Then, little by little, it seemed as
though different objects crept forward, one by one, like wild animals
from their lair.
Those white patches, the hands of two white-gloved men, holding sheaves
of programmes--she realised one between her own fingers--whispering
together.
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