‘I don’t know if that’s true,’ he replied, and there was an air of genuine discomfort, real desperation in his voice. This was, Georges decided, about so much more than a girl. ‘The dances there, they’re . . . alive, Georges. They’re changing and growing and living – so much more than any we perform in the ballroom. It reminds me of when I was a boy. Going to the Brancroft with my father, to the Vaudeville. I’ve been ignoring it for so long. And then . . . then there’s Nancy. I spent so many years roman-cing the guests in the Grand. The princesses and duchesses and ladies of means. Then this summer my family sent me a letter. I met Nancy Nettleton. Everything changed. I thought I wanted to be Raymond de Guise, but . . .’ Raymond hesitated. Then, he blurted out, ‘Georges, what am I to do?’

‘It’s a conundrum, boy.’ Georges touched his hand again, and it was enough to return Raymond to the scrawny little boy Ray Cohen used to be. It was good, he reflected, to have a father of sorts. To have somebody who understood. ‘The last thing you must do is beg. Should you beg to return, you’ll lose their respect. You will never have pride of place in the ballroom again unless they respect you – and unless you respect yourself.’

‘Respect. Yes, that’s it, Georges. I don’t respect them. I can’t. You’ve heard, of course, about Cable Street?’ Georges’ face paled at the mention of it, as if he was finally realising something about his protégé sitting in front of him. ‘The British Union of Fascists marched through my old streets. They ransacked the place. My neighbours, my family, they went out to barricade the roads . . . and the police came at them with batons and truncheons and horses and fists. And only nights before, there I was, courting the same bastards in the Grand. Dancing for their pleasure, while they talked of driving people like me out of the country. Every night, I’m there in the ballroom. Lord Edgerton brings them in for exquisite dinners in the Queen Mary. They have the ear of Mr Baldwin and Mr Chamberlain and all of the rest – everyone who’d sell this country down the river, broker a peace with the worst of humankind. And me? I dance to smooth the path of their ambitions . . .’

Georges softly said, ‘Politics has no place in the ballroom. You used to know this, Raymond.’

‘Edgerton’s turned the Buckingham into his own little embassy. Maynard Charles has rolled over and let him do it. German dignitaries fly in from Berlin and Munich to take meetings there. So many English aristocrats clamouring to take meetings with them. My brother fell upon the barricades. And all while I waltzed.’