The girls were fascinated by the rows of colourful canopied swing seats outsidfc every cafe. They kept on buying drinks just so that they could sink down and kick the dust from their shoes and rock back and forth dreamily in the drowsiness of the afternoon.
They.learned to ask for caffd latte, coffee with milk, and limonata, lemonade, and learned how to tip without paying too much.
In the evening at their table on the terrace, Stephanie ordered a bottle of wine to go with their meal. With that childishly imperious manner of hers, which she could summon up at a moment's notice, she caught the waiter as he was passing and calmly told him to bring a bottle of bordolino.
Carol was taken unawares. She watched as Stephanie poured the light ruby red liquid into her glass, and asked, 'Do you think your uncle would approve?'
'Gray isn't here,' Stephanie said simply.
On Tuesday night there was dancing at the hotel. Stephanie had spent most of the day preparing for it. When they went down at a lateish hour to where the strains of the music drifted out across the foyer, she was looking her best in an expensively tailored pastel- coloured dress. Her dark hair was wavy and silken. Swept back from her face in a pale hairband, it showed to perfection her honey-toned classic features.
Carol was too conscious of her responsibilities as chaperon to bother much about her own appearance. She wore a simple linen dress and her hair was pale on her shoulders. She couldn't think what harm there would be in Stephanie dancing in their own hotel, but she felt easier taking a back seat away from the dance floor so that she could keep her eye on things unobtrusively.
Stephanie, completely at ease, drifted where the lights were brighter and soon she had a partner, the first of many throughout the evening.
The chandeliers above the dance area were heavy and golden. The orchestra was dressed formally in white tie and cherry-suited tails. The various young men who danced with Stephanie moved with aristo cratic grace and held her in a proper, aloof way.
In the shadows Carol sat back and relaxed smilingly.
While they were at the Hotel Albany, what did she have to worry about?
Time passed. The days took on a rhythm—swimming, sunbathing. Dining on the terrace when the weather was warm. Shopping in the nearby tourist area, and occasionally hiring racquets for a game of tennis.
After the long hours out of doors the late evenings became the time for gossip. Stephanie, her hair washed and coiled in a towel or some new skin cream pasted on her face, would drift in and claim Carol's bed and ask her what she thought of this colour nail varnish, or that new brand of shampoo. With Carol idly brushing her hair before the mirror, or smoothing her lashes, they would air their opinions in this field before moving on to discussing the events of the day, or their plans for the morrow. But these were just the preliminaries. Nearly always Stephanie would manage to steer the conversation round to her pet subject—Carol's family.
One evening, lying in her favourite position, her elbows propping up her chin and her feet circulating the air, she asked out of the blue, 'Would your brother Clive like me, do you think?'
'Clive?' Carol swung her surprised smile up from the press stud she was re-stitching on her nightdress case. 'He hasn't shown much interest in girls up to now,' she replied truthfully, and with a rueful grimace. 'He's mad on anything mechanical.'
'What does he do?' Stephanie asked dreamily.
'He works at the aircraft factory with my father,' Carol turned her smile down at the corners again, 'but he says he'd rather fly planes than make them.'
'Is he like you?' The question was asked musingly.
'Not very much. He's quite a bit taller.'
'I expect Peter's nice, isn't he?' the voice mused on from the bed.
'For a brother I suppose he'll do,' Carol twinkled.
To the query, 'Is he going to work in the aircraft factory too?' she replied, 'I doubt it.
They.learned to ask for caffd latte, coffee with milk, and limonata, lemonade, and learned how to tip without paying too much.
In the evening at their table on the terrace, Stephanie ordered a bottle of wine to go with their meal. With that childishly imperious manner of hers, which she could summon up at a moment's notice, she caught the waiter as he was passing and calmly told him to bring a bottle of bordolino.
Carol was taken unawares. She watched as Stephanie poured the light ruby red liquid into her glass, and asked, 'Do you think your uncle would approve?'
'Gray isn't here,' Stephanie said simply.
On Tuesday night there was dancing at the hotel. Stephanie had spent most of the day preparing for it. When they went down at a lateish hour to where the strains of the music drifted out across the foyer, she was looking her best in an expensively tailored pastel- coloured dress. Her dark hair was wavy and silken. Swept back from her face in a pale hairband, it showed to perfection her honey-toned classic features.
Carol was too conscious of her responsibilities as chaperon to bother much about her own appearance. She wore a simple linen dress and her hair was pale on her shoulders. She couldn't think what harm there would be in Stephanie dancing in their own hotel, but she felt easier taking a back seat away from the dance floor so that she could keep her eye on things unobtrusively.
Stephanie, completely at ease, drifted where the lights were brighter and soon she had a partner, the first of many throughout the evening.
The chandeliers above the dance area were heavy and golden. The orchestra was dressed formally in white tie and cherry-suited tails. The various young men who danced with Stephanie moved with aristo cratic grace and held her in a proper, aloof way.
In the shadows Carol sat back and relaxed smilingly.
While they were at the Hotel Albany, what did she have to worry about?
Time passed. The days took on a rhythm—swimming, sunbathing. Dining on the terrace when the weather was warm. Shopping in the nearby tourist area, and occasionally hiring racquets for a game of tennis.
After the long hours out of doors the late evenings became the time for gossip. Stephanie, her hair washed and coiled in a towel or some new skin cream pasted on her face, would drift in and claim Carol's bed and ask her what she thought of this colour nail varnish, or that new brand of shampoo. With Carol idly brushing her hair before the mirror, or smoothing her lashes, they would air their opinions in this field before moving on to discussing the events of the day, or their plans for the morrow. But these were just the preliminaries. Nearly always Stephanie would manage to steer the conversation round to her pet subject—Carol's family.
One evening, lying in her favourite position, her elbows propping up her chin and her feet circulating the air, she asked out of the blue, 'Would your brother Clive like me, do you think?'
'Clive?' Carol swung her surprised smile up from the press stud she was re-stitching on her nightdress case. 'He hasn't shown much interest in girls up to now,' she replied truthfully, and with a rueful grimace. 'He's mad on anything mechanical.'
'What does he do?' Stephanie asked dreamily.
'He works at the aircraft factory with my father,' Carol turned her smile down at the corners again, 'but he says he'd rather fly planes than make them.'
'Is he like you?' The question was asked musingly.
'Not very much. He's quite a bit taller.'
'I expect Peter's nice, isn't he?' the voice mused on from the bed.
'For a brother I suppose he'll do,' Carol twinkled.
To the query, 'Is he going to work in the aircraft factory too?' she replied, 'I doubt it.
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