was an awkward movement, completely without grace.
One of the other young men laughed.
Angeles did not even look at him. Her eyes were fixed on Forsbrook. No one else in the room seemed to notice.
Forsbrook said something to Angeles and gave a slight bow. He was still smiling.
Angeles blushed hotly. She started to speak, but seemed unable to find the words she needed. She ended by apparently saying something angry in Portuguese, and the other young women moved away uncomfortably.
The young men looked at each other and laughed again, but weakly; it seemed more out of confusion than amusement.
Forsbrook took another step toward Angeles, this time with one hand forward as if he would touch her arm.
She snatched it away, and in stepping backward lost her footing a little. Forsbrook lunged forward and grasped her, preventing her from falling. She gasped, and then cried out.
Forsbrook held her more firmly. It could have been because he feared she might fall.
Angeles tried to wrench her arm away from Forsbrook but he held on to her. She swung her other arm and slapped him across the face as hard as she could. One of the young men let out a cry of surprise.
Forsbrook let go of her with a very slight push and she staggered backward, tripping on her skirt and collapsing into a couple of girls, who were giggling and oblivious of everyone else. The three of them clung together to avoid ending up on the floor, angry and embarrassed.
“For God’s sake, what’s the matter with you?” Forsbrook shouted at Angeles, as she struggled to find her balance. His voice was sufficiently loud that at least a dozen people heard him and swung around to stare.
Angeles’s face was scarlet. She looked desperate, turning from left to right to find some way of escape.
Charlotte had been moving forward to intervene. At the same moment she saw Vespasia several yards away, her face filled with deep anxiety. She also was trying to make her way toward the open space where Angeles and Forsbrook now stood facing each other.
“Stop it!” Forsbrook was still raising his voice and he took another step closer to her, again reaching for her arm.
She staggered backward again, her face twisted as if in terror.
“Stop it!” he repeated. “You’re making yourself look ridiculous!” He lunged forward, reaching out as if to take her hand, just as a waiter with a tray of glasses passed within a yard of her.
She gasped and pulled away, and this time crashed straight into the waiter, sending the glasses flying in all directions, splintering on the floor. The poor man tripped in his effort to regain his feet and only made it worse. He ended up splayed across the floor, arms and legs wide, champagne and slivers of glass everywhere.
“Get a hold of yourself!” Forsbrook demanded furiously of Angeles. “You’re hysterical! Are you drunk?”
Angeles picked up a dish of cakes from the table nearest her and hurled it at him. It struck him in the chest, covering his dinner suit with jam and cream.
He swore, in language he surely could not have intended anyone to hear in a public place, darting his arm out and grasping her shoulder firmly, as if to shake her. She screamed again and lashed out, kicking with all her strength, even turning her head and biting him on the hand. At that, he cried out and slapped her, and when she let go there was blood dripping scarlet from the flesh between his finger and thumb.
Now most of the room was staring, confused and alarmed. Everyone seemed paralyzed by the scene and unsure what to do.
Vespasia was helping the waiter to his feet, so Charlotte practically ran the remaining distance to Angeles, calling her name.
Angeles, however, seemed aware only of Forsbrook. She was swearing at him in Portuguese, her face still twisted in fear. So Charlotte turned to Forsbrook, at least to try to stop him from moving any closer to Angeles. But he was too angry to see anyone else.
“You stupid girl!” he said, waving his hand around as if the pain were unbearable. “You bite like a mad dog!” He continued moving toward her every time she backed away.
“Neville!” Charlotte caught his arm but all she managed to hold on to was the cloth of his coat. He tore it out of her hand, unintentionally bumping her, so she was forced to steady herself. She remained on her feet only with difficulty.
Angeles turned and ran, plunging through the knots of