"You talk of ruin, after that charming character reference you just gave Maggie Herriott?"
"I'm sorry, you have to play that bit again, I didn't get it."
"You said," she muttered through her teeth, "that you didn't expect to stay very long. Your tone included me. That will be taken to mean that you are not very interested in the attractions being offered here. From which it follows, as the night the day, that you have your own source of superior supply."
"Oh!" Solo thought it through. "Meaning you?"
"Who else? We came together!"
"But you know I didn't mean anything like that."
"Do I? I don't remember you explaining that part." She smiled pointedly. "Even if it's true, do you think that makes it any better? That you look and then turn up your nose?"
"Hmm!" Solo thought that bit over and sighed. "I can't win. And I thought this was going to be fun!"
All at once her mood changed dramatically. "Does it look like fun?" She gestured to the rapidly filling floor. Solo looked with sharpened eye and curiosity. The men were all of a kind, almost anonymous in formal evening dress. They managed to look furtive, uncomfortable and unwilling, but determined not to show it. The women, though, were another matter. There was every color imaginable, and textures all the way from toweling to the most gossamer sheer, and there was more bared flesh, taken wholesale, than would have been possible anywhere outside a Turkish bath. But they too had that unhappy and determined not to show it look.
"Trying too hard," he guessed. "They've heard the message, that nudity and sex and love are all the rage now, so they are determined to be 'with it.' But it's not really them." He pondered a bit more. "These are all rich people, important people in some way, right? So they have a value on themselves. And they can't let go. They are just going through the motions because it's the thing to do, but they would far rather be smothered in sables and diamonds and make a show that way."
"That's rather profound." Miss Perrell looked impressed despite herself. "Are you quoting somebody?"
"No. Just thinking. After all, this fuss about the flower people, the hippies, is largely because they are rejecting most of the things ordinary people value. And when you think about it, those things are largely outward show. Ostentatious expenditure. Remember what Evadne said about nudists on Levant? You couldn't tell one from the other, they all look the same. People do, underneath. So"—warmed to his theme as the ideas came to him—"if you tend to be a somebody without artificial trappings, you have really got to be good. It isn't something you can buy."
"Oh!" She looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I should take off this stupid dress, then? Stop pretending to be—"
"Save it," he grinned. "You don't have to prove anything to me. Shall we try that dance again?"
"Do you really want to?"
Solo caught what he had been straining to see all this time, just a flash of coppery red hair over there. It was enough. "Eh? Want to? You bet I do. Come on!"
Meanwhile Mr. Kuryakin was having troubles of his own. Evadne was setting a pace that he couldn't possibly keep up with, but that didn't worry her at all.
"You just watch me," she invited. "When the steam starts coming out of your ears, then we'll see what we can do let it off."
So he watched her and hoped that the glue she had used was good stuff, or she was going to lose her pear patches. From time to time he spared a quick glance for the others on the floor. One slim girl circled sedately past him, at arm's length from her partner, and, like him, she wore a black tailcoat. And a veil. And nothing else at all. And there was a Spanish vivid girl, every bit as lively as Evadne, who had achieved her costume by simply dipping handfuls of flower petals in some kind of gum and dabbing them all over herself. But then, out of the babble and rhythm, came a voice.
"My dear young lady, I am, I assure you, performing the oscillations you require of me. On the inside. The news has yet to reach the outskirts, alas. It will take time!"
Kuryakin knew that voice, would never forget it. He fixed Evadne with a chill eye, extended his arm and waved her close.
"Touching is for later, darling!" she protested, but he took her by the wrist and held her close, working her around in conventional steps until he could see where the voice had come from. It came again.
"I fear it is a labor of futility, my dear. My body could never contort itself like that, nor would it look attractive if it did. I leave it, delightfully, to you."
Kuryakin looked. That was Louise, sure enough, and the man with her fitted the mental picture. A veritable Falstaff, he had a pinkly cherubic face and a great shining dome of a head. Kuryakin locked his partner close.
"You know everybody here?"
"Naturally. There isn't one can hold a candle—"
"Shut up! Look, that large man dancing with the redhead in gold."
"That's Uncle Henry. Silly old man, he is."
"Your uncle?"
"Of course not! I just call him that. He's an old friend of the family, comes here often."
"What's his name?"
"Now look here!" Evadne grew restive under the questioning. "You forget about him. Pay attention to me, that's what I'm for—"
"The name!"
Evadne's lower lip protruded and quivered as if tears were imminent. She said, fast and furious, "If you must know, his name is Henry Beeman. He is filthy rich. He lives quite close. When he's home, that is. And he knows the rudest stories I ever heard, so there!"
"Thank you!" Kuryakin whirled her swiftly and skillfully to the edge of the floor and released her. "Sorry about all this, but I have to go now. Urgent business. Some other time, perhaps." He stepped away, peering through the throng, and saw Solo coming to meet him, with Miss Perrell, set faced and silent, on his heels.
"Got him spotted, Illya, and the high sign from Louise."
"Me too. I heard him, first. Our man, sure enough. And I have his name, from Evadne."
"Good. I was scared to ask you know who, the mood she's in."
"But we need her for transport, Napoleon."
"Yes. Pray for me, huh?" He tried on a smile as he turned to Miss Perrell. "Look, Nan!" he murmured. "We've seen. It's very nice, but we're not all that impressed. We'd like you to take us home. Back to your place, that is. Would you?"
"Both of you?" she sounded baffled.
"That's the way we prefer to work," Kuryakin explained. "Together. We always do that."
Solo smiled at her. "Let Lady Herriott think what she likes, eh? You don't really mind about that, do you?"
"I suppose I don't, really. All right, come on." They followed her around and to the double doors again. Lady Herriott stood by the low table while the immaculate Monty Hagen counted a sizable pile of engravings with great care, mumbling to himself.
"You're leaving? So soon? Nothing went wrong, I hope?"
"Not a thing, Lady Herriott. Let's say we found what we were looking for, and we're satisfied."
"I'm taking them home with me," Miss Perrell said, rather more loudly than was necessary. "You don't mind, do you?"
"Of course not, my dear. Have a lovely time, won't you?"
"Thanks, Maggie, I intend to. Come on, you two."
Solo was so intent on his discovery, and involved with tentative plans ahead, that he missed completely the innuendo between Miss Perrell and their hostess. It didn't begin to dawn on him until they were entering the car and she suggested he should drive.