XI
Joyce had gone out to a dance, leaving Bertram alone to write his book. She had made him a fair offer to come with her, telling him that it was his own fault if she had to rely on other company as an escape from boredom.
“What company?” he asked, and looked up sharply from his papers.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Some of the usual. The two Russian girls and Jack Hazeldeane, Kenneth.”
Bertram pushed his papers on one side.
“What’s the use of my coming? The two Russian girls bore me to death with their tales of the old régime and stories of Bolshevik atrocities. And I hate to see you dancing with Kenneth. He dances like an amorous ballet master. Besides—”
“Besides what—?”
“If there’s any dancing to be done, it’s I that want to dance with you.”
“All the time, Bertram?” She smiled at his greed.