‘Oh well,’ said Victor coldly, ‘if you like ’em floppy ——’ He set his jaw again and silent as ever they flitted across a pool of floor that opened for them, light as moths above the shadows. The Lawrences were remarkable everywhere with their burnished hair brushed up into haloes; they trailed enormous feather fans across their partners’ shoulders negligently and refused to waltz with elderly men, though they would make an exception in favour of Colonel Duperrier.

Mrs Duperrier sat against one of the walls, following couple after couple round with her eyes. Now and again she would smile metallically at a girl she knew and ask her whether she were having a good time. Though she never seemed to be watching Colonel Duperrier, she knew where he was all the time and could have pointed him out immediately. She had trained herself to remember distinctly whichever scene from her past had at the moment most torturous significance for her; now she could see herself at nineteen, admired to satiation, waltzing with Captain Duperrier at Darjeeling. A French window stood open on to a balcony, from which steps led down into the black-dark garden; couples dived in and out of the window perpetually, and presently Mrs Duperrier, who had been expecting this the whole evening, saw her husband disappear with one of the Lawrences and waited in vain for him to come back. Mr Lee-Mittison, who had been working his way round the room, bumped down beside her abruptly with his hands on his parted knees.

‘I hope you agree with me that our girls are doing us credit? There isn’t a girl in the room that can hold a candle to one of the Lawrences; Sydney Warren’s looking very distinguished (I can’t honestly tell you I care for this thing they’re all dancing), and even the little Bransomes light up well. Mark my word——’

Mrs Duperrier suddenly felt she could not bear this, made a queer little sound and shot up from her place. After one last look through the window she pushed her way between the dancers and out of the dining-room. She passed Ronald Kerr in the doorway and looked at him in amazement, then rushed past him and shut herself up in her room.

Sydney wore a scarlet dress and danced as though she had for once forgotten herself. A young Italian whose name she did not know had attached himself to her; she divided her dances between him and Colonel Duperrier and a gingery Captain Somebody-or-other from another hotel, who thought her conversation smart, and giggled ecstatically. The Italian danced, as Veronica afterwards said, ‘like a seraphim’; he taught Sydney the tango as it is danced in Rome, and it was while she was standing balanced against him to the slow music that she looked sideways and saw or rather for the first time apprehended Ronald: she realized that he must have been there some time.