Chuck said: ‘I’m a slow reader, that’s all.’

‘Curious,’ she said. ‘My father-in-law, your paternal great-grandfather, was the most successful banker of his generation, yet he could barely read or write.’

Chuck said: ‘I didn’t know that.’

‘It’s true,’ she said. ‘But don’t use it as an excuse. Work harder.’

Gus looked at his watch. ‘If you’re ready, Mama, we’d better go.’

At last they got into the car and drove to the club. Papa had taken a table for the dinner and had invited the Renshaws and their offspring, Dot and George. Woody looked around but, to his disappointment, he did not see Joanne. He checked the table plan, on an easel in the lobby, and was dismayed to see that there was no Rouzrokh table. Were they not coming? That would ruin his evening.

The talk over the lobster and steak was of events in Germany. Philip Renshaw thought Hitler was doing a good job. Woody’s father said: ‘According to today’s Sentinel, they jailed a Catholic priest for criticizing the Nazis.’

‘Are you Catholic?’ asked Mr Renshaw in surprise.

‘No, Episcopalian.’

‘It’s not about religion, Philip,’ said Rosa crisply. ‘It’s about freedom.’ Woody’s mother had been an anarchist in her youth, and she was still a libertarian at heart.

Some people skipped the dinner and came later for the dancing, and more revellers appeared as the Dewars were served dessert. Woody kept his eyes peeled for Joanne. In the next room a band started to play ‘The Continental’, a hit from last year.

He could not say what it was about Joanne that had so captivated him. Most people would not call her a great beauty, though she was certainly striking. She looked like an Aztec queen, with high cheekbones and the same knife-blade nose as her father, Dave. Her hair was dark and thick and her skin an olive shade, no doubt because of her Persian ancestry. There was a brooding intensity about her that made Woody long to know her better, to make her relax and hear her murmur softly about nothing in particular. He felt that her formidable presence must signify a capacity for deep passion. Then he thought: Now who’s pretending to be an expert on women?

‘Are you looking out for someone, Woody?’ said Grandmama, who did not miss much.

Chuck sniggered knowingly.

‘Just wondering who’s coming to the dance,’ Woody replied casually, but he could not help blushing.

He still had not spotted her when his mother stood up and they all left the table. Disconsolate, he wandered into the ballroom to the strains of Benny Goodman’s ‘Moonglow’ – and there Joanne was: she must have come in when he wasn’t looking. His spirits lifted.

Tonight she wore a dramatically simple silver-grey silk dress with a deep V-neck that showed off her figure. She had looked sensational in a tennis skirt that revealed her long brown legs, but this was even more arousing. As she glided across the room, graceful and confident, she made Woody’s throat go dry.