‘What happened? Are you all right?’ she garbled at him, more words tumbling out.

‘Crash – he swerved – bike’s in a ditch. Jack needs an ambulance.’

‘Other fellow’s already called. It’s on its way. Let’s get him inside,’ Peter was saying. Thank God he was there to take charge. He didn’t seem drunk any more.

Jack lifted his head, bloodied and streaked with dirt. She heard her own intake of breath. He looked up at her, his eyes shining and with a twisted smile on his gouged, red-streaked face.

A scattering of dancers were drawn to the scene. Peter, Arthur and a group of other men made their way through the throng and laid out the invalid on the floor of the hallway. Through the open door to the ballroom, the band was still playing and shadow couples were swaying, unaware of the commotion outside. Verity stayed with the group in the hallway, unable to leave the scene. Muriel was there too: she’d appeared with the others and barged through and started bossing them around. Verity could do nothing. She was torn with anger at Jack for his arrogance and at Arthur for letting him do it. But most of all, at herself, for shouting out the damned American’s name. Why did she do that?

Arthur was bruised and cut, and his clothes torn but he was walking at least. He sat on a chair someone fetched for him and took a cigarette with trembling hands. Someone else brought him a drink of water. Jack, on the other hand, had clearly broken something. He was propped up against the gold-leafed vine-patterned wallpaper of the hallway. There were trickling lines of blood from his face down his neck, and onto the blue collar of his uniform. He submitted cheerfully to Muriel’s ministrations while the rest of them looked on uselessly. Muriel wiped Jack’s face gently with a cloth and picked out gravel from his cheeks and Verity hated the busy, confident hand that touched his face. She knew she should go and sit with Arthur. It was the right thing to do. It should have been her who fetched him the chair and the drink. She tried to tell herself that he didn’t need her, that he was fine. It was natural for her to be concerned for Jack. If she could just make light of it, it would be all right. It was a trifle. But instead she hovered at the back of the crowd, watching the American. Arthur turned away from her and she felt rejected even though she had failed to go to him. She knew what she should do but she couldn’t do it. Her jaw was clenched so tightly, little jags of pain shot down her neck.