It featured a Russian floor show. The atmosphere was of old Imperial Russia. The place, noisy and smoky, was cavern-like with its low ceiling, its dark walls and its red lanterns. The waiters, in their loose white shirts, black trousers and hairy moustaches, were as wild-looking as Cossacks. Some were Cossacks: Cossacks who had remained faithful to Tsarism, and who felt there was no such thing as all men being equal. For a start, there were few men equal to Cossacks. The music of balalaikas was either haunting or infectious, either nostalgic or rousing. The Cossack dancers stamped to it, and circled with booted feet kicking. The diners stamped too, and beat the tables with their fists or their glasses. Glassware in the hands of Russians wining and dining was always at a premium. Natasha, wearing one of her new dresses, its spotless white giving her a feeling of being clean and shriven, sat with Mr Gibson at a table in a recess. Her face was animated, and there was a glow in her eyes, the reflected glow of the red table lantern.
