“Perhaps,” she suggested softly, “we had better dance.”
She rose to her feet and he acquiesced at once. As he leaned towards her, his face as white as marble in the moonlight, he was undoubtedly handsome, yet once again she caught a glimpse of something in his eyes which filled her with a vague uneasiness.
“Yes, we’ll dance,” he assented. “You’re teaching me to understand what dancing means. The last time—when was it?—Alexandria, I believe——”
He stopped abruptly, confused by a turbulent flood of memory. They moved away to the music, in and out of the string of lights, rocking now in an unexpected night breeze. Claire danced still with the joy of her youthful strength and gracious temperament. Once or twice, when Gregory’s arm seemed to be drawing her a little closer, she freed herself slightly. Once she caught a flash of that disturbing glint in his eyes, but she only laughed at her own uneasiness.
“Please don’t look so terribly in earnest,” she begged him. “Dancing is one of the happiest things in the world. We must keep that feeling always with us.”
The music came to an abrupt finish. Claire looked across at the leader of the orchestra in dismay, but it was too late for intervention. Already the first notes of “God Save the King” had been struck.
“Well, it has been lovely,” she declared. “I suppose I must go and look for Mrs. Hichens.”
“Come and have a lemon squash first,” he begged.
The steward served them out on deck. Gregory drank a whisky and soda as though it had been water.
“Let’s sit out for a time,” he suggested. “It is too warm to sleep down below. I’ll fetch some more rugs.”