The dance floor wasn’t crowded. The Negro pianist he recognized from the minstrel show, where he performed in blackface. Without his makeup he wasn’t much darker than Gina. He wore an elegant jacket and trousers, rather than the garish stripes and gambler’s hat he sported in the show.

“He looks snappier dressed like that,” said Francis, steering Gina across the room.

“What, did you think he dresses in those loud duds when he’s not on the stage?” She glanced at the piano player, who acknowledged her with a nod and broke into “Peacherine Rag.” Gina turned to Francis. He offered her his arm, and they stepped onto the dance floor.

Francis was a good dancer. Gina feigned surprise that he could fox-trot. After a few songs she asked, “Do you know the Texas Tommy?”

Francis shook his head. She peered over his shoulder to catch the pianist’s eye. Without missing a beat, he began playing “King Chanticleer.”

“Like this,” proclaimed Gina. “Watch me.”

Francis followed her lead, stooping to set his chin on one of her shoulders and his hand on the other. She did the same, standing on tiptoe to reach him, and segued into a two-step, moving faster than he would have thought possible. She pulled him close and began to spiel, whirling so that her hair tumbled around her face. Francis caught flashes of the other dancers watching them, their expressions ranging from disapproval to shock.

When the song ended, Francis loosened his tie, grinning as he walked her toward a table. Gina sat across from him, breathless and flushed, as Francis ordered two schooners of beer from a passing waiter. Gina raised her glass to him. “You’re a pretty good dancer, Francis.”

“Not so fleet with the newer styles. That Texas Tommy’s a hot one.”

“You learned fast.”

“If I learned slow you would’ve trampled me! Where’d you learn to tough dance?”

“That’s not a tough dance. A girl I worked with at the milliner’s used to live in San Francisco. She taught me.” She took a long swallow of beer. “It’s fun, isn’t it?”

The pianist launched into a slower melody, and the couples on the dance floor arranged themselves into tipsy approximations of a waltz. Gina set her glass on the table and stared at it, as though divining something there. At last she looked up.

“Why aren’t you married?”

Francis found himself too tongue-tied to respond to such a question. Unperturbed, she asked, “What about a sweetheart?”

He shook his head. “I had a girl, but…”

“She broke the engagement?”

“No. She died.”

“Oh!” Gina’s arch expression crumpled into dismay. She covered Francis’s large hand with her small one, gazing at him with such heartfelt pity he felt ashamed.

“It was three years ago,” he said, hoping he didn’t sound diffident. “No—four, I think.”

“Was that before you left the Chicago police?”