refreshing, reflections of herself as they passed the smoke-room windows, with her tight white cloche pulled down over her entrancing eyes, the white ruff of fur, her loose white gloves, her slim: white-silk ankles. She felt eyes lifted over books; people spoke of them as they swung past.
"How about a dry Martini?"
"Starting cocktails at half past eleven?"
"Better late than never."
"All right, but twice around the deck first."
And there was John Durand, falling into step with them. She thrust a hand through John's arm, one through Tommy's, and they swept around the deck, not getting out of the way for anybody.
