Nothing Venture by Patricia Wentworth

deeply and rather closely set, the nose insignificant, the chin jutting again and oddly cleft; a small colourless mustache clipped away from the corners of the mouth showed thin, pale lips; his hair was smooth and mouse-coloured.
    Nan felt a stab of fear. The man frightened her. He looked at her over Rosamund’s shoulder, and she breathed more freely when he looked away.
    Rosamund turned from F.F. and spoke.
    â€œAre you up for long? How can you tear yourself from King’s Weare in this weather?”
    â€œI’ve been seeing my sister married,” said Nan. “She sailed for Australia today.”
    â€œThen you’ll be going down tomorrow, I suppose.”
    Jervis said, “Yes, tomorrow.” He added, quite lightly and smoothly, “So I’m afraid we shan’t meet again.”
    Rosamund took her hand from the table. The sapphire in her ring caught the light. It was darkly blue. Her eyes resembled it as she said,
    â€œWe’re dancing. Shall we see you—or are you running away?”
    â€œNo, we’re not running away,” said Jervis. That brilliant smile came and went.
    Nan had a feeling that he would smile like that if he were fighting for his life. She thought he was fighting for something now. There had been the visible flash of meeting blades when his eyes met Rosamund’s.
    Rosamund Carew smiled and passed on down the room, spoke for a moment to Lady Tetterley, smiled at Nonie Carter, touched Enid Melliter on the shoulder, and after a word or two passed on and out of sight behind a golden pillar.
    â€œ Well! ” said Mr Fazackerley. He put a wealth of expression into the word; his eyes darted questions from which his tongue refrained. Like King David, he held his tongue, but it was pain and grief to him.
    Jervis looked at him rather maliciously.
    â€œWhilst we eat our ices, you shall tell us what you’ve been doing for the last six months, and then—” He turned on Nan. “Do you like dancing? Would you care to dance?”
    They were seated again. A faint sparkle came into Nan’s grey eyes. Her mouth did not smile, but a dimple appeared quite close to it, quivered a moment, and was gone.
    â€œI don’t think we’ll run away,” he said. “I think we’ll dance. If F.F. makes a clean breast of all his villainies, he shall dance with Rosamund—and I’m sure you’d love a turn with Leonard.”
    Her face went blank; her colour was gone.
    She said, “Oh no—I’d rather not.” Then, with a pathetic earnestness, “Oh, please don’t make me.”
    â€œThen you’ll have to put up with me—and I’m nothing like the performer that he is.”

XIII
    The Luxe has the best dancing-floor in London. Ferdinand found Miss Carew graciously willing to accord him a dance. If Robert Leonard resented having to give way to him, he showed no sign of it, but stood in the mirror-lined archway and watched the curiously matched couple go by.
    F.F. was at least an accomplished dancer. As he danced, he talked with considerable verve, whilst Rosamund smiled and listened.
    A moment later Jervis and Nan went by. If Ferdinand was an accomplished dancer, the new Mrs Jervis Weare was an exquisite one. Jervis experienced an elusive feeling of being for once at the top of a form to which he had never previously aspired. He looked down at Nan’s brown head. He could just see one of her ears. It was little and delicately shaped; the lobe showed pink between short waves of hair.
    â€œI suppose you know how beautifully you dance. I wouldn’t have dared ask you if I had known.”
    She looked up for a moment—one of those direct looks of hers.
    â€œI was a dancing partner at Solano’s for six months before I went to Mr Page,” she said.
    â€œDid you like it?”
    She could hear the frown in his voice.
    â€œNo.” It was a very sober monosyllable to cover a good deal of