"This is going to sell us thousands of newspapers."

The photographer bounced on his toes in front of his publisher's desk.

"Who are they?" the publisher asked, tapping a finger on the glossy photo.

The photographer shrugged. "Don't know. All I could get is that they're both doctors."

"Where was this taken?" the publisher asked.

"At the Swanlea Charity Ball."

The publisher nodded. "Public venue then, we don't have to get their permission. Did you get any more?" the publisher waved the photograph at him.

The photographer grinned. "Oh yeah. They're quite a pair of dancers. They came swirling in like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers, cleared the whole dance floor. They didn't even seem to notice. At the end they just stopped and clapped politely for the orchestra as if they didn't realize everyone was watching them.

"I got that one when the band started up again. It's the best of the bunch."

The publisher looked down at the photo on his desk, positioning it on his front page mock up. "Run it."

The photographer grinned. "What headline?"

The publisher leaned back and spread his hands wide, indicating large type. "'I Could Have Danced All Night.'"

The photographer grinned, laughed, and sprinted out to get working.

The publisher looked back down at the photo on his desk. It was of a tall man in black top hat and tux, wearing an incongruously blue bow tie. And a gorgeous woman with a flaming mane of curls in a ball gown.

But what struck him was the pose. They were slow dancing. The man's hat was askew, his tie had come undone. And in the closeup of the picture, he could see the woman's head resting on his shoulder, a blissful smile on her mouth, and one fist wrapped possessively in the end of his bow tie.

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