excused. I've got to look out for some of my other guests, he explained. I'll be back.
Danny's a wonder, Lasca commented. He runs from table to table lapping up the expensive drinks. The customers hardly get a look-in on their own liquor. Another quart of Lanson 1914, she commanded the waiter, and ask Toscanini to play my favourite tune.
As the waiter whispered in his ear, the pianist gave his men their cue and the band broke into, I like pie, I like cake.
It's a grand symphony! cried Lasca. Ta! Ta! Monte. Come back later.
She led Byron to the floor.
Black Bottom, she whispered.
I can't do it very well, he protested.
Try it, she adjured him.
Strangely enough, he found it perfectly simple to execute the intricate steps under the inspiring influence of her example. The floor was not crowded; only three or four couples were dancing. The music was soft and sensual; the band knew all the tricks of jazz, but it was a jazz made exquisite, refined. The saxophone cooed like a turtle dove, the drumbeat seemed to reverberate from a distance.
As Byron's lips brushed Lasca's cheek, an exotic fragrance assailed his nostrils, a fragrance with which he was becoming more and more familiar, a fragrance it would be impossible henceforth for him to forget.
