“Are you going to dance in Paris now?”
“I do not know. I hope so; but so much is closed on account of the war.”
“What will you do if you can’t get an engagement?”
“What do you think? I shall starve. I have done it before.” She smiled bravely. “It is good for the figure.” She pressed her hands on her hips and looked at him, inviting his considered opinion. “Do you not think it would be good for my figure to starve a little? One grows fat in Istanbul.” She posed. “You see?”
Graham nearly laughed. The picture being presented for his approval had all the simple allure of a full-page drawing in La Vie Parisienne. Here was the “business man’s” dream come true: the beautiful blonde dancer, married but unloved, in need of protection: something expensive going cheap.
“A dancer’s must be a very hard life,” he said dryly.
“Ah, yes! Many people think that it is so gay. If they knew!”
“Yes, of course. It is getting a little cold, isn’t it? Shall we go inside and have a drink?”
“That would be nice.” She added with a tremendous air of candour: “I am so glad we are travelling together. I was afraid that I was going to be bored. Now, I shall enjoy myself.”
He felt that his answering smile was probably rather sickly. He was beginning to have an uncomfortable suspicion that he was making a fool of himself. “We go this way, I think,” he said.