The fireworks obviously put everyone in a party mood. They started playing parlor games, harmless ones at first, but then progressively more risqué.

“Let’s play statues,” someone suggested. There were giggles as ladies were selected to stand as statues in the middle of the room. A male volunteer was called for and Foggy Farquar stepped forward. He was blindfolded, spun around and then put among the statues. The object of the game was then revealed—he had to feel the statues and guess the womens’ identities. What followed was a lot of groping and bawdy comments. I was so glad I hadn’t been picked as a statue; I’d have died of embarrassment. But the women actually seemed to enjoy it. I noticed Jean-Paul standing in the doorway, chuckling. His eyes met mine and he winked at me.

Then the band arrived and the activity turned to dancing. After a few dances, Jean-Paul claimed me and held me close as we drifted around the floor in a slow fox-trot. “I want to say something to you,” he muttered, steering me toward the edge of the crowd. My pulse rate quickened. Was this a proposal?

“I think you should go home,” he said, eyeing me seriously. “As soon as the police give you permission, go home. This place is not right for you. You do not belong here.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“You’re a nice girl. A decent person. You don’t belong with a crowd like this.”

I didn’t know what to say, because I knew that what he was saying was true. I didn’t feel comfortable with them. “So you don’t care if I go?” I dared to ask.

“Of course I shall be sad, but I care about you more. I don’t wish you to wind up like them. There have been many women in my life and most of their names I have forgotten by the morning. But your name, I do not think I shall forget.” He put a finger under my chin and lifted it up toward him. “If things had been different . . .” he said and didn’t finish the sentence. But he pulled me toward him and kissed me gently. “I have to go,” he said.

A little later Neville came up to me. There were beads of sweat on his forehead and he was frowning. “I say, you haven’t seen Belinda, have you?”

“No, I can’t say that I have recently.”

“Damned rum do. She seems to have hopped it.” He scanned the room hopefully as he spoke.

My stomach lurched. It wasn’t long since Jean-Paul had whispered, “I have to go.” It didn’t take too much imagination to suggest that Belinda had gone with him. I felt sick and angry and more than a little confused.