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friend—”
    “Wouldn’t fox Ma. No, I think it’s something else, all those daughters and only one son.”
    “Plain daughters at that,” Blanco agreed.
    “And Mabs is a smasher.”
    “Why didn’t you tell me?” asked Blanco, surprised.
    “Because you haven’t a hope. Mabs is seventeen.”
    “And her friend?”
    “Same goes for her.”
    “Do you think the baron and baroness went on trying: pop, pop, pop, pop, pop, five little girls, then great big pop, she’s done it at last, Felix, a son, hurrah, we can call a halt?” suggested Blanco.
    Cosmo and Blanco clung to each other, screaming with laughter.
    Recovering, Blanco said, “I think your mother realised that if we join up with the Dutch, it gets us away from that horrible couple at the next table who were bullying their child.”
    “Ah yes, I caught some of it. They said she had blackheads. Poor kid. I say, Elizabeth, the eldest Dutch daughter, plays backgammon and they all play tennis. They seem friendly. One of them asked why don’t we dance at the casino. It seems age doesn’t matter, we can all go and dance.”
    “Dance?” said Blanco, interested.
    “Can you dance?”
    “A bit,” said Blanco modestly.
    “If you want to get off with Mabs you must dance.”
    “Actually, I can dance. See me dance the Charleston.” Blanco began to dance, bobbing and kicking on the pavement, “Come on, Cosmo, dance!”
    “Stop it, you’ll attract a crowd. Shut up,” hissed Cosmo, alarmed by his friend’s high spirits.
    “Don’t be so English,” sang Blanco, dancing.
    Cosmo took to his heels.
    Blanco joggled and kicked down onto the beach, where he danced patterns in the sand. As he danced he hummed the tune he had seen Jack Buchanan dance to with Elsie Randolf. Exultantly he danced towards the waves, crunching up the sand. The breeze from the sea stung his eyes and ruffled his hair. He flung out his arms and whirled about in ecstasy.
    He stopped at last; he had the beach to himself. He stood watching the lights from the town reflected on the water and considered the colour of the waves in the moonlight. Were they silver or emerald? Was the sea black or bottle green? A cloud passed across the moon. He felt cold and turned to walk back. It was then that he saw Flora.
    Flora was wading into the sea with her eyes shut. She was fully dressed. When Blanco caught her, she bit him.
    Blanco pinned her arms to her sides and carried her up the beach. She kicked his shins; her heels, drumming on his shinbones, hurt abominably. Blanco held her tightly with his left arm and smacked her. “Keep still.” She bit him again. “Bitch.” He shook her. “Stop it.” He was horrified by her silence. She dodged his raised hand and tried to bite him again. “I know who you are,” he said. “I shall take you to Madame Tarasova.” Still Flora said nothing. “Come on,” Blanco said, putting her down, “walk.” He kept a tight hold. “If you can walk into the sea, you can walk up the hill.”
    “I’ve ruined my best trousers,” he said presently to Cosmo.
    “Send them to the cleaners. Then what happened?” Cosmo was already undressed and in bed.
    “I just said to Madame Tarasova that I had caught her walking into the sea. With her eyes tight shut!”
    “God!”
    “And not a word said! Look where she bit me. Look at my shins; she’s broken the skin. They are going blue.”
    “What did Madame Ta—”
    “Said something in Russian, something about hot milk in French. She sort of folded the child up.”
    “Enfolded.”
    “All right. Enfolded. She said quite a lot more in Russian, then she thanked me in French. She was kissing and cuddling her all the time, sopping wet. She said leave it to her—just look at these trousers!” Blanco wailed.
    “Go on.”
    “Then her bloody little dog came hurtling down the stairs—we were half in, half out of the house—and tried to bite me. That seemed to wake the child; she started to laugh. The Tarasova waved me away,