“Unfair advantage?” echoed Gombauld in genuine surprise.
“Yes, unfair advantage. You attack me after I’ve been dancing for two hours, while I’m still reeling drunk with the movement, when I’ve lost my head, when I’ve got no mind left but only a rhythmical body! It’s as bad as making love to someone you’ve drugged or intoxicated.”
Gombauld laughed angrily. “Call me a White Slaver and have done with it.”
“Luckily,” said Anne, “I am now completely sobered, and if you try and kiss me again I shall box your ears. Shall we take a few turns round the pool?” she added. “The night is delicious.”
For answer Gombauld made an irritated noise. They paced off slowly, side by side.
“What I like about the painting of Degas...” Anne began in her most detached and conversational tone.
“Oh, damn Degas!” Gombauld was almost shouting.
From where he stood, leaning in an attitude of despair against the parapet of the terrace, Denis had seen them, the two pale figures in a patch of moonlight, far down
