Edmund stared blinkingly at the dancers again. He was the happiest he had ever been, and he needed to put an end to it. If the moment were drawn out, if he and Violet were to talk, he knew he would spoil it somehow. If only he could get away! He veered his head and saw Mrs. Simpson a few yards off. His and Violet’s fingertips were still touching. What on earth had made him do it? His great-uncle had been at Waterloo. Perhaps this was the last dreg of heroism left over. For a while longer he kept his fingertips there. Then he fluttered them in temporary, yearning farewell. He hoped Violet would understand that this was what the flutter meant. But oh God, he had not removed them. He had fluttered for nothing.