"Not a bit," he declared. "I never had such a ripping evening in my life."
She held his arm a little tighter. She was the old Sophy again, full of life and gaiety.
"Let's go to the Aldwych," she suggested, "and see the dancing. We can just have something to drink. We needn't have any more supper."
"Rather!" he assented readily. "But where is it, and what is it?"
"Just a supper club," she told him. "Tell the man No. 19 Kean Street. What fun! I haven't been there for weeks."
"What about my clothes?" he asked.
"You'll be all right," she assured him. "You're quite a nice-looking person, and the manager is a friend of mine."
The cab stopped a few minutes later outside what seemed to be a private house except for the presence of a commissionnaire upon the pavement. The door was opened at once, and John was relieved of his hat and stick by a cloak-room attendant. Sophy wrote his name in a book, and they were ushered by the manager, who had come forward to greet them, into a long room, brilliantly lit, and filled, except in the center, with supper-tables.
They selected one near the wall and close to the open space in which, at the present moment, a man and a woman were dancing. The floor was of hardwood, and there was a little raised platform for the orchestra. John looked around him wonderingly. The popping of champagne corks was almost incessant. A slightly voluptuous atmosphere of cigarette-smoke, mingled with the perfumes shaken from the clothes and hair of the women, several more of whom were now dancing, hung about the place. A girl in fancy dress was passing a great basket of flowers from table to table.
Sophy sat with her head resting upon her hands and her face very close to her companion's, keeping time with her feet to the music.