With a toss of the bobbed-head and a mechanical grab at a recalcitrant shoulder-strap, the girl broke into a grotesque cancan.
Rather wearily, Anne permitted herself to be swept into Gerald’s arms. Joined by six or seven other couples they wheeled around the room, like a flock of gaily-feathered pigeons.
Anne felt herself studied by the weary young eyes.
“What is the matter?” she said a little peevishly. “Have you discovered a wrinkle?”
The boy pressed her to him with spasmodic strength. She marvelled at the force of the doll-like creature, and at herself for ever having been, even momentarily, swayed by his puerile passion.
“Don’t be foolish, Gerald,” she added crossly, as he continued to crush her against him. The music stopped with a staccato crash. They circled to a finish near the alcove where Ellen Barnes and the Marchese were bolstering a dwindling conversation by forced inanities.
Anne accepted the Marchese’s chair with gratitude. Vittorio was a real man and a relief after the hectic Gerald. She looked up at the latter with a rather tired smile.
“Do get yourself a drink, Gerald, you look so hot. Thompson is serving them in the library, I believe. You may bring me one, too, if you like,” she added to mitigate the rather abrupt dismissal. Personally, she loathed cocktails.
Ellen was looking almost animated.
“The Marchese has been showing me a chain he dug up somewhere in Persia,” she drawled between puffs of a scented cigarette. “He tells me I may wear it in my next play, which is taken from the Arabian nights or the Bible, I never can remember exactly which. At any rate, it’s antique and oriental!”