The Cosmo was a nightclub with a lavish floorshow. As soon as the party was seated, bottles of champagne were clapped down on their tables. They hadn’t been there long before the members of the orchestra left their dais and walked severally to the front tables. The bass and ‘cello players actually planted their instruments on the tables and plucked the strings. The fiddlers and saxophonists came as close as possible. The tympanist held his cymbals poised above the shrinking Major Sweet’s head. Eight marginal nudes trimmed with tropical fruit, jolted round the floor space. ‘Black lightning,’ was introduced and they turned into Negresses. The noise was formidable indeed.

‘Well,’ Grant asked Sophy. ‘Still keeping Grandpapa Jason at bay?’

‘I’m not so sure he doesn’t ride again.’

The uproar was such that they were obliged to shout into each other’s ears. Lady Braceley was jerking her shoulders in time with the saxophonist at her table. He managed to ogle her while continuing his exertions. ‘She seems,’ Grant said, ‘to be on the short list of persona grata here as well as at the Gioconda.’

‘It’s a bit hard to take, I find.’

‘Say the word if you’d like to go. We could, you know. Or do you want to see the rest of the show?’ Sophy shook her head vaguely. She tried to get her reactions into some kind of perspective. It was odd to reflect that less than twelve hours ago she had met Grant for virtually the first time. It was not the first time by many that she made an instant take but she had never before experienced so sharp an antagonism followed for no discernible reason by so complete a sense of familiarity. At one moment they had blackguarded each other to heaps and at another, not fifteen minutes later, they had gossiped away in the shrine of Mithras as if they had not only known but understood each other for years. Me, thought Sophy, and Barnaby Grant. Jolly odd when you come to think of it. It would have been quite a thing if she could put it all down to the violent antagonism that sometimes precedes an equally violent physical attraction but that was no go. Obviously they were under no compulsion to fall into each other’s arms.

‘If we stay,’ Grant was saying, ‘I can snatch you up in my arms.’

Sophy gaped at this uncanny distortion of her thoughts.

‘In a cachuca, fandango, bolero or whatever,’ he explained. ‘On the other hand—do pay attention,’ he said crossly. ‘I’m making a dead set at you.’

‘How lovely,’ Sophy rejoined. ‘I’m all ears.’