“You are a rotten dancer, Jake. Michael’s the best dancer I know.”
“He’s splendid.”
“He’s got his points.”
“I like him,” I said. “I’m damned fond of him.”
“I’m going to marry him,” Brett said. “Funny. I haven’t thought about him for a week.”
“Don’t you write him?”
“Not I. Never write letters.”
“I’ll bet he writes to you.”
“Rather. Damned good letters, too.”
“When are you going to get married?”
“How do I know? As soon as we can get the divorce. Michael’s trying to get his mother to put up for it.”
“Could I help you?”
“Don’t be an ass. Michael’s people have loads of money.”
The music stopped. We walked over to the table. The count stood up.
“Very nice,” he said. “You looked very, very nice.”
“Don’t you dance, count?” I asked.
“No. I’m too old.”
“Oh, come off it,” Brett said.