We gave him time to reach his post; then O’Shea and I made a detour and crept up on to the veranda so that we looked into Da Cunha’s bungalow from a window opposite to that which concealed Jack. The room was sparsely furnished. It had a polished floor from which the few rugs had been removed. There was champagne in an ice bucket on a buffet. There was the most elaborate and costly wireless set I had ever beheld. A Moorish lamp hanging from the beamed ceiling gave light. I could see two good pictures--both nudes--and a long, deep, cushioned divan. At the Savoy, they were playing Jerome Kern’s “Who,” and Nanette and Da Cunha were dancing to it. I have said that the none-such danced perfectly. His dancing on this night was inspired--inspired by passion. He did not merely hold Nanette, he enveloped her; with his arms, with his ardent, lascivious eyes. She swam into view and out of view like a dream-nymph hypnotized by a satyr. Her expression was indefinable as I saw it. A sort of exaltation was there, born of adventure and sensuous music. I could not know whether she had tasted the wine; but there was a dawning doubt, too, a doubt of herself that was not yet fear. Then the music ceased, and we heard remote applause. Da Cunha disconnected the set and led Nanette to the divan. He seated himself beside her, smiled, and put his arm around her bare shoulders. She made a little whimsical grimace, but did not protest. Then she glanced at him quickly--and he stooped and kissed her. It was a lingering kiss, which she ended by pushing him away. Their conversation reached us as a mere murmur; but Nanette imperatively negatived further advances and pointed in the direction of the buffet. Da Cunha shrugged, smiled, and crossed to the ice bucket. I had both fists so tightly clenched that they hurt; but O’Shea’s hand held my wrist like a human manacle. Jack’s inaction astounded me. Then, under the urge of O’Shea’s iron restraint, I began to think. After all, poor Jack held no rights over Nanette, and he was too unworldly to grasp the inwardness of this scene. She had suffered Da Cunha’s kiss. Jack was still waiting for his cue. It came shortly after Da Cunha returned with two beaded glasses. I had watched Nanette whilst the man had poured out the wine; and I knew that, at last, pique, rebellion, having died their natural deaths, she realized her position. He set the glasses on a little coffee table and drew it beside the divan. Nanette asked him to connect up with the Savoy again. He shook his head and smilingly handed her one of the glasses. She put it down, untouched. Da Cunha drained the other, replaced it on the table, and, suddenly throwing himself on his knees, clasped the girl in eager arms and burst into a torrent of passionate speech. Nanette shrank back on the divan. Da Cunha followed her. He kissed her hands, her arms, her shoulders. He devoured her with his lips.