"Men!" She rolled her eyes. "Always an eye for pretty girls." In that tone of voice, girls was synonymous for children.
Mirelle, whose back was to the rest of the room, refrained from turning but Sylvia craned her neck, raised her eyebrows appreciatively and made a little moue with her mouth.
"G.F., especially," she laughed, flicking a glance at Steve. "That one appears to be fair game. And such a handsome escort. I'll take him any time! Tres distingue. Whoops, they're coming this way."
Someone brushed against Mirelle's chair and as she moved it to let them pass, she inadvertently looked up. She was startled to see James Howell behind her. He smiled, wished her good evening and passed by with his companion.
"Who is he?" asked Sylvia in a hoarse whisper at Mirelle.
"James Howell," Mirelle replied, glancing apprehensively at Steve. He was still following the girl with his eyes.
"Why, he's old enough to be that child's father," Adele remarked tartly.
"Your claws are showing, dear," her husband remarked. "For my part, I'd say he had damned good taste."
Mirelle hoped that her face didn't show her annoyance but she didn't feel that she ought to mention that Howell had a daughter: Steve might wonder that she was so knowledgeable about the affairs of a man whom she was supposed to know only casually.
"Who is he?" Sylvia asked, insistent.
"He's a concert accompanist."
"The one who played for that soprano in last spring's Community Concert?"
"I wouldn't know that."
"Fancy your recognizing his face," remarked Fritzie in an insinuating drawl.
"We've met a couple of times. He helped me change a flat tire once last spring," Mirelle said and then some perverse whim prompted her to add mendaciously. "Then he was dripping steak juice on my toes one day at the Food Fair. He was very apologetic and we got to talking in the line. He introduced himself."
Sylvia slid into the rather awkward pause with a 'sick' joke about supermarkets and the subject of James Howell was dropped. Later Mirelle glanced unobtrusively towards Howell's table. The girl's profile was turned towards her and it was immediately apparent to Mirelle that the girl was his daughter: the jawline and the set of the ears was unmistakable. She was lovely, young, and very pleased to be dining with her father. She was teasing him, leaning across the table, waggling a finger at him. He laughed and grabbed the finger.
"I promise not to drip steak juice on your toes," said G.F. in Mirelle's ear, startling her. "Will you dance with me?"
"Certainly." Charm-vendor or not, G.F. had an unembarrassing way of flattering a woman.
He was tall enough to be a good partner, and led easily and well, holding her firmly but not objectionably against him.
"You're deceptively tall, Mirelle."
"All legs."
He gave her a searching glance. "To descend to the banal, your face is strangely familiar."
"And you'd be originally from Austria?"
He laughed at her evasion. "Very good actually. But off-putting. I've prided myself that I've lost all trace of my accent." He said the last in a very broad musical comedy inflection.
"Almost. It's a game I play," and she glared at him for the mischief in his eyes, "that I can place people's accents."
"And mine to identify ethnic origins. I'd say," G.F. went on relentlessly, "that you are at least partly Irish."
"Correct. The rest is nondescript."
"My dear girl, the rest is Slav. To be precise, Magyar."
" 'Hungarian and a princess'," Mirelle retorted, quoting Professor Higgins from My Fair Lady.
"No," G.F. contradicted her, suddenly and unexpectedly very serious. "Not a Hungarian princess." There was a bitterness and anger in his eyes which faded instantly as he looked down at her. "Sylvia tells me that you've done a very fine statuette of Lucy Farnoll."
"It isn't finished."
"You don't look like a sculptress."
"How should one look?"
"Bulging with proletarian muscle?"
"I might if I worked in stone but I don't."
"Have you shown anything around here?"
"No. My production is limited."
"If your work is as good as Sylvia thinks, and she's astute in her artistic judgments, you at least have settled on quality rather than quantity."
"No paths to my door."
"What? No revolutionary plaster mousetraps?"
"Not even a plaster mouse. My specialite is pig paperweights."
G.F. threw back his head and guffawed just as the music stopped. Mirelle felt all eyes on them and tried to move back to their table, but G.F. had not let go of her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw James Howell watching.
"What's so funny?" Adele demanded, dragging Bob out on the floor to them.
"Mirelle plays with words nicely."
"Is that all?" Adele asked in an arch fashion that set Mirelle's teeth on edge.
She rather thought that G.F. found the attitude trying as well. Fortunately the music started and G.F. swung her off. She was grateful that he had limited his remark to Adele. She had already displayed the sort of condescension which Mirelle would not have tolerated for any length of time.
When the next set of dances started, G.F. traded her off to Steve, who'd been dancing with Sylvia.
"We haven't done this sort of thing in a long time, have we?" Steve said, tucking her head against his cheek as he used to do.
"Did you try that last twist?" she asked.
"Not me," he said with a rueful shrug. "Sylvia was game enough but I begged off. She's a good dancer, though. Nice woman."
"Yes, she is."
"You could do with a friend like her, Mirelle. You've needed someone ever since Lucy died." Mirelle agreed with him. "You ought to get out with other women. Go bridging or take up tennis."
Mirelle shook her head vehemently. "And you won't find Sylvia doing that sort of thing either."
"Nonsense," he said, holding her off and looking at her rather angrily. "She did the registration canvass."
"That's not bridge or tennis. That's politics."
"It's getting out and not sticking to four walls and…" He broke off suddenly and pulled her close to spin to the music. As they started the pivot, her heel went down on someone's foot and she broke from Steve's grasp to apologize.
"It's perfectly all right, Mrs. Martin," said James Howell, grimacing manfully and making a great play of tentatively putting weight on his injured right foot.
"Well, you did drip steak juice on my feet in the Food Fair," she said.
"Our account is now squared then: blood for blood."
Steve cleared his throat and Mirelle hastily introduced them.
"And may I introduce my daughter, Margaret? Mr. and Mrs. Martin."
Margaret Howell shook Mirelle's hand warmly. "You must be the Mrs. Martin who sculpts. Dad said how much he admired your Cat. And to think that you live right here in Wilmington."
"And dripped steak juice on strangers in an ordinary Food Fair," added James Howell. Only Mirelle could guess at the deception behind his bland expression. "Let's see if any permanent damage has been done. May I? Thank you." And he had his arms about Mirelle and was leading her off before Steve could form a protest. "Mind you, Martin, Papa's got an eagle eye."
"You're incredibly cheeky," Mirelle said as they whirled off.
"Who's talking cheek? Steak juice on your feet, indeed! Pure fabrication!" His eyes were dancing with mischief. Nothing was wrong with his foot from the way he moved. He was a more daring and flamboyant dancer than Steve, and Mirelle was intensely aware of his strong hand on her back. He was taller, too, and as her forehead came to his jaw, she couldn't see over his shoulder. She craned her neck to see how Margaret was doing with Steve.
"Margaret will be keeping him much too busy to watch you. Dancing with her old father is not her idea of a thrill although I believe that she's a credit to me on the dance floor."