Gay and Algy oscillated with the rest. A saxophone moaned like a wounded siren. The rhythm drummed and thrummed and beat its way through the commonplace melody. The most archaic sense of all awoke to it, thrilled to it, kept time to it. The soloist lifted up a nasal tenor and sang with swooning sweetness, “Heaven’s in your arms, and I’m there.”
When the music stopped they found two chairs and one of the little red and black striped tables. There were quite a lot of well known people in the room, and Algy was much gratified at being able to do showman.
“That’s Mrs. Parkington who broke the woman’s altitude record the other day. They say she’s an awfully good sort. And that’s Parkington with her. They’re the most devoted couple, but he never stops being sick in a plane, so she has to leave him behind-she says he unnerves her. And that’s Jessie Lanklater, the new tap-dancer, and the man with her is Lew Levinsky who wrote the music of Up She Goes Again. And the woman with red hair who has just come in is Poppy Wessex-Gardner.”
Gay pricked up her ears. She saw a very tall, very thin woman with flaming hair and flaming lipstick in a long sheath-like garment which looked as it if was made of sheet cooper. Strands of copper wire were wound about her arms from shoulder to wrist. Her open sandals disclosed orange toe-nails.
“Does she always dress like that?”
“Or more so,” said Algy. “The little fat, bald man is the husband who provides the cash-masses, and masses, and masses of cash. And the fellow who looks as if he’d just bought us all at a jumble sale is one Danvers. I don’t know anything about him except his name, and I don’t want to.”
“I shouldn’t think you did.”
“I don’t. I say, there’s Cyril Brewster, the chap I was telling you about. I don’t know who the lovely he’s talking to is, but she’s something to write home about, isn’t she?”
Mr. Brewster was a thin, dark young man with a pince-nez and an earnest expression. Gay looked at him, and set him down as a bromide. Then she looked past him to a vision in blue and silver. She said,
“He’s talking to my cousin, Sylvia Colesborough.”
Algy gazed.
“I say-is she really your cousin?”
Gay laughed without quite knowing why. Why should you laugh when your best young man is quite obviously struck all of a heap by someone else? She laughed and said,
“I suppose she is.”
“How do you mean, you suppose?”
Gay laughed again.
“Well, she and Marcia and I were at school together, and when we were pleased with each other we were cousins, and when we quarrelled we weren’t. I think we had the same great-great-grandfather.”
“Definitely a cousin,” said Algy. “I say, she’s marvellous-isn’t she? Will you introduce me? I’d like to cut out Brewster, and I’d like to be able to say I’d danced with anything as marvellous as that.”
Gay flew a little scarlet flag in either cheek, a little scarlet danger flag. She said in a small, meek voice,
“And what happens to me, darling? Do I practice being a wallflower, or do I dance with Cyril?”
“You dance with Cyril,” said Algy firmly. Then he grinned, and with the grin went back to being the schoolboy of ten years ago. “Unless you’d rather be a wallflower. You’d be awfully decorative, but I don’t suppose you’ve had enough practice to do it really well. I say, you don’t mind, do you? I expect it did sound a bit curt, but I would like to dance with her-just once-just to say I’d done it.”
“All right, you shall. She dances beautifully too, but your Cyril Brewster’s got her for this one.”
“Do you want to dance it?”
Gay shook her head.
“I’d rather look on, then we can catch them as soon as they stop. Besides, I want to talk to you.”
Algy’s eyes followed the blue and silver vision.
“She’s wasted on Brewster,” he said with regret. “He’ll bore her.”
Gay suppressed a giggle.
“He won’t. The man doesn’t live who can bore Sylvia.”
Algy looked at her darkly.
“You don’t know Brewster. He’d bore anyone, and he’d do it as perseveringly and efficiently as he does everything else.”
“Then I’d rather be a wallflower,” said Gay.
Algy smiled upon her kindly.
“Oh, no, you wouldn’t. But I’ll rescue you after one dance-I swear I will. Anyhow, he’s quite an efficient dancer.”
“Algy, I want to talk to you.”
“All right, I’m here. What do you want to talk about?”
“I want to ask you something.”
“All right, ask away, I haven’t got a kingdom, but if I had one, you could have half of it. I can’t say fairer than that.”
And he hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped out. There was something about Gay sitting up rather straight and looking rather earnest that made it slip out. The blue and silver lovely was a godsend, because be mustn’t, he really mustn’t slip over the edge of being in love with Gay, and when she looked at him with something young and a little forlorn behind the sparkle in her eyes, the edge was dangerously near.
“Algy, what would you do if someone tried to blackmail you?”
“I should tell him to go to blazes,” said Algy promptly.
Gay considered this. It seemed to her a simple and efficacious method, but it was no use commending it to Sylvia. She sighed and said,
“Suppose you couldn’t-I mean, suppose you weren’t like that-I mean some people can’t tell people to go to blazes-they just can’t.”
Algy’s agreeable features took on an expression of gravity.
“I think they had better try,” he said. “And if they can’t manage it themselves, I think they had better go to the police. After all, that’s what the police are for, you know.”
“That’s all very well,” said Gay, “but suppose the blackmailer wouldn’t go to blazes, and you couldn’t go to the police.”
“Why couldn’t you?” said Algy quickly.
Gay looked serious too.
“The thing you were being blackmailed about might be the sort of thing you couldn’t go and chat about to a policeman.”
Algy began to feel dreadfully perturbed.
“Look here, is this a hypothetical case, or is somebody blackmailing you?”
Gay flashed into brilliance. Her eyes sparkled, and the red flags danced in a brisk, angry breeze.
“What do you think I’ve done?”
“I didn’t think you’d done anything.”
“Well, you don’t get blackmailed for nothing-do you?”
“I don’t know-I’ve never tried.”
“Nor have I!”
There was anger between them under the wordplay-quick cut and thrust of anger, quick unreasoning cut and thrust. It surprised them both. It surprised Gay so much that she caught her breath and said,
“We’re quarrelling. I don’t know why. We’ve never quarrelled before.”
“It’s never too late to mend.” He looked at her with laughing eyes. “You’re awfully funny to quarrel with.”
“Funny?”
“Like a robin pecking.”
“Robins are fierce. They fight like anything.”
“All right, I’ll be careful. Let’s get back to the blackmailer. What does he want? It’s absolutely fatal to start giving money. The horse-leech isn’t in it-the more you give, the more he’ll want, and the more he’ll get. Seriously, Gay, if you know anyone who is being blackmailed, tell them that.”
“It isn’t money-he doesn’t want money.”
“What is it then?”
Gay’s lively colour died. She looked uncertain, pale, frightened.
“I don’t think I can tell you. It’s something-it might be something dreadful.”