passion was not involved. What if Beman went off with a heart attack or stroke? Intercourse wasn't too easy for him even when fit. Not that that was so important. The worrying thing was what was going to happen in the too-fast approaching future when one was too old to be a romantic musical star. Only men could be perennial juveniles on Broadway. One ought to get a surefire dramatic play. Look at the reviews dramatic actresses received. Year after year until their dotage they were written about as artists. In fact, the older they were the more réclame. Considering some of the girls in the show Lyle had been with, it should be easy to get him into bed.
"Let's dance this, Tessie," Lyle said, hoping Lucy would be on the floor.
Beman and Clarissa followed them, and Mrs. Cornwallis turned her bird eyes toward Figente's table.
She can see in all directions and I'll bet she never forgets a thing, thought Lucy.
To her surprise Figente went over and invited the queer woman and the man who was a Marqués to join them. As they shifted, making room, she saw Ranna had been about to ask her to dance but, seeing what was going on, shrugged in disappointment and asked his hostess instead.
Mrs. Cornwallis lowered herself into the chair opposite Lucy, her pearls clicking like false teeth, Lucy thought, as Figente chanted introductions.
"Later," Ranna whispered in passing and Lucy nodded.
"I see Opal has the dancer Ranna with her. I met him at the Archduke Michael's in Paris," said Mrs. Cornwallis, her voice a harsh squawk.
"Well, of all things!" Lucy exclaimed. "That's Opal Hickenlofer from Denver. I thought she looked familiar."
Mrs. Cornwallis looked at her sharply and, sucking in her breath, a ghostly whistle emanated from between her bluish teeth. As she talked to Figente an eerie whistling falsetto broke in the squawky voice.
A parrot voice, Lucy thought fascinated, strangely familiar. Was it because it was like the ventriloquist's at the Palace? No, something else. Frightening and unplaceable. A nightmare recollection?
The Marqués was talking to her. What with his accent and the noise, she had missed what he said. He looked as a Marqués should, ugly and imposing, a special kind of handsomeness. His politeness was easy and friendly. He was what Figente tried to seem.
