Alma pulled him away and turned him. The beat was jaunty, but they weren’t following it. She put her arms around his neck, and he set his hands on her hips. He could feel her underwear through her dress. “This party’s going to get ugly,” she said, giving a glowering look over his shoulder, to Clara, presumably. “You can’t leave me.”

“I don’t intend to,” he said.

“Maybe we can escape,” she said. “We’ve got our pick of houses. We don’t have to stay here.” She was smiling at him, full of meaning, and Henry felt dizzy. The lights seemed to dim, the music to come from far away.

“That’s probably not a good idea,” he said. Slowly he caressed her hips. “I could get myself into a lot of trouble.”

She said nothing more. Something had turned. If the state of affairs between them wasn’t plain before, it was plain now. They danced. There was another ragtime tune, and then Clara returned to the piano for a jazz number, and the party babbled along. Henry and Alma were separate from it.

Until Carl appeared, swaying in his unbuttoned uniform and tank top. “All right,” he said to Alma, “why don’t you quit this act?”

She pressed herself to Henry. “What act?”

“This”—he waved the back of his hand at them—“this boyfriend nonsense. You were with me tonight.”

“I don’t recall promising myself to anyone.”

“Right,” he said, and pressed his finger to her shoulder. “Like I said, you’re a fucking tease.”

Henry moved Alma behind him and with a bolt of adrenaline said, “You ought to back off, son,” and Carl laughed joylessly, and squared himself. He must have been half a foot taller than Henry.

“Or what, little hillbilly?”

Before Henry could answer, Alma put herself between them. “Or I’ll gouge your eyes out,” she said. Her voice was even and calm, just loud enough for him to hear over the music. She took Henry’s hand and led him away. From the staircase she picked up a votive candle, and he followed her down the hall, past the bathroom, to a door near the end. They entered, and Henry closed the door behind him. “Is there a lock?” she asked, and he found the latch under the knob, and turned it.

The music came to them, muffled, from down the hallway. Henry expected Carl to bang on the door, but nothing happened.

“I think we’re safe,” Alma said. “God, what an asshole.”

“What was his problem?”

“Who knows.”

They were in a study. Bookcases lined one wall. A heavy desk and wingback chair stood on one side, and in the middle of the room stood a leather couch and armchair.