"The dark girl. In the dance with us."
"I am so sorry."
Lennox abandoned him, left the steps and prowled around the edge of the ballroom. He went again to the bar, regarded the red-head and the bartender without comprehension, wandered off and discovered, in a hall of Chinese teapaper, a small Christmas tree hung with corsages. A honey-haired girl in a thin-strapped evening gown was unpinning some orchids from the tree.
"I beg your pardon," Lennox mumbled.
She looked at him curiously.
"The dark girl who was dancing with us. Do you know her?"
"Dancing with us?" All her charm disappeared in the bray of her voice.
"My God!" Lennox thought in panic, "I haven't heard her speak. What if she...." Aloud, he said: "The Candle-Dance. The dark girl in our circle who—"
"I wasn't in the Candle-Dance," the girl informed him coldly and turned away. She was the wrong stereotype.
Lennox went back to the library steps and began searching the dance floor, couple by couple. Below him and to one side a voice called: "Psst! Hey Jake!"