There would be only their two selves, alone together--for she had no intention of inviting Lady Gertrude and Isobel to attend this first performance.
She was nervously excited at the prospect, and when she heard the distant sound of a horseman trotting up the drive she jumped up and ran to the window, peering out into the dusk.

It was Roger, and as horse and rider swung past the window she drew back suddenly into the fire-lit shadows of the room, letting the short window-curtains fall together.
Five minutes later she heard his footsteps as he came striding along the corridor on to which the West Parlour opened.

Then the door-handle was turned with imperious eagerness, someone switched on the light, and he came in--splashed with mud, his face red from the lash of the wind, his hair beaded with moisture from the misty air.

He looked just what he was--a typical big sporting Englishman--as he tramped into the room and made his way to the warmth of the blazing log fire.
Nan looked up and threw him a little smile of greeting.
"Hullo, darling, there you are!" He stooped and kissed her, and she forced herself to sit quiet and unshrinking while his lips sought and found her own.
"Have you had a good day ?" she asked.
"Topping.

Best run of the season.