slowly back to her hotel.
“Oh, yes—about Yannis. Was it Cyprus, do you think?” As he looked blankly at her, she explained, “Cyprus caused so much bitterness. It’s all settled now, of course. But so many Greeks turned against the English. That could be why Yannis was so—so—well, you saw how he behaved. And that’s so unfair, too. Because George was pro-Greek, right through the Cyprus trouble. It was a miserable time for him during these last four years. He was stuck in London. In fact, it was only recently that he was given a real job to do again—working with the Greeks— that’s something which really interests him.” She fell silent. Almost sadly, she added, “Do you understand what I’m trying to say? But why should you? I don’t even know why I am talking to you like this. You listen so well—perhaps that’s the reason.”
“Or perhaps because I’m American?” he asked. Or perhaps because she was as lonely as Miss Katherini, he was thinking. He glanced up at the high, corner window as they reached the hotel, and frowned for a moment.
“You haven’t given me your friend’s address,” she reminded him.
“There’s no need. He’s probably in Taormina right now. He’s going on to Athens, too. So your husband can see him there.”
“No, not that way!” she said. “Let me see him first, talk to him. That will make things easier.”
“You should be the diplomat in your family. Where can Steve meet you?”
“But George isn’t a career diplomat,” she said quickly. “He isn’t Foreign Office, one bit. Why don’t you tell your friend that I’m always at the English Café on the main piazza every afternoon at four o’clock? George has been so busy this last week that he has scarcely left the hotel. Reports and things...” she added vaguely. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Strang. You know, your name sounds so familiar.” She gave a dazzling smile and a firm handclasp. She looked past him, toward the doorway of the hotel, and her smile became shy, embarrassed.
“Don’t you want your magazines?” He began dividing them from the pile under his numb left arm.
“Tell me,” she said urgently, in a low voice, “what do you do? Why are you going to Greece? On holiday?”
“Not exactly. I visit ruins and try to draw reconstructions of them.” He noticed her amazement. He grinned. “What was your guess?” If she had any time for guessing about me, he thought, with all her worries about George. Even her interest in Steve was only because of dear George.
“George!” she said delightedly, holding out her hand. Her husband walked past Strang to stand beside her, his back turned to the street and the houses opposite. “I am so glad you came down to meet Mr. Strang. Kenneth Clark Strang. Don’t you remember, darling? That book about the Mayan temples?” Her eyes were laughing. “I gave it to my husbandfor his birthday,” she told Strang. “You are one of his favourite authors.”
It was a masterly introduction. George Ottway’s face, not particularly genial at this moment, unfroze just enough so that his eyes couldn’t revert to the cold stare he had been preparing for the last two minutes within the shadows of the hotel doorway. Kenneth Strang’s amusement turned to appropriate embarrassment. He glanced at Caroline Ottway, but she was too clever a little piece to show she had disarmed them both. “We’ve had such a wonderful talk,” she told her husband, cueing Strang at the same time, “all about the Greek theatre” —she waved her magazines towards the rising crags at the end of the street—“and—and things...”
It was a lame ending. But Caroline was no liar, Strang decided; she was just a sweet little finagler with a tendency to be the defending tigress. George didn’t look as if he needed much defence, though. Strang looked at the fine-boned face, the well-shaped head with its neatly brushed grey hair, the controlled lips, the quietly appraising eyes.
“Oh, yes—about Yannis. Was it Cyprus, do you think?” As he looked blankly at her, she explained, “Cyprus caused so much bitterness. It’s all settled now, of course. But so many Greeks turned against the English. That could be why Yannis was so—so—well, you saw how he behaved. And that’s so unfair, too. Because George was pro-Greek, right through the Cyprus trouble. It was a miserable time for him during these last four years. He was stuck in London. In fact, it was only recently that he was given a real job to do again—working with the Greeks— that’s something which really interests him.” She fell silent. Almost sadly, she added, “Do you understand what I’m trying to say? But why should you? I don’t even know why I am talking to you like this. You listen so well—perhaps that’s the reason.”
“Or perhaps because I’m American?” he asked. Or perhaps because she was as lonely as Miss Katherini, he was thinking. He glanced up at the high, corner window as they reached the hotel, and frowned for a moment.
“You haven’t given me your friend’s address,” she reminded him.
“There’s no need. He’s probably in Taormina right now. He’s going on to Athens, too. So your husband can see him there.”
“No, not that way!” she said. “Let me see him first, talk to him. That will make things easier.”
“You should be the diplomat in your family. Where can Steve meet you?”
“But George isn’t a career diplomat,” she said quickly. “He isn’t Foreign Office, one bit. Why don’t you tell your friend that I’m always at the English Café on the main piazza every afternoon at four o’clock? George has been so busy this last week that he has scarcely left the hotel. Reports and things...” she added vaguely. “Well, good-bye, Mr. Strang. You know, your name sounds so familiar.” She gave a dazzling smile and a firm handclasp. She looked past him, toward the doorway of the hotel, and her smile became shy, embarrassed.
“Don’t you want your magazines?” He began dividing them from the pile under his numb left arm.
“Tell me,” she said urgently, in a low voice, “what do you do? Why are you going to Greece? On holiday?”
“Not exactly. I visit ruins and try to draw reconstructions of them.” He noticed her amazement. He grinned. “What was your guess?” If she had any time for guessing about me, he thought, with all her worries about George. Even her interest in Steve was only because of dear George.
“George!” she said delightedly, holding out her hand. Her husband walked past Strang to stand beside her, his back turned to the street and the houses opposite. “I am so glad you came down to meet Mr. Strang. Kenneth Clark Strang. Don’t you remember, darling? That book about the Mayan temples?” Her eyes were laughing. “I gave it to my husbandfor his birthday,” she told Strang. “You are one of his favourite authors.”
It was a masterly introduction. George Ottway’s face, not particularly genial at this moment, unfroze just enough so that his eyes couldn’t revert to the cold stare he had been preparing for the last two minutes within the shadows of the hotel doorway. Kenneth Strang’s amusement turned to appropriate embarrassment. He glanced at Caroline Ottway, but she was too clever a little piece to show she had disarmed them both. “We’ve had such a wonderful talk,” she told her husband, cueing Strang at the same time, “all about the Greek theatre” —she waved her magazines towards the rising crags at the end of the street—“and—and things...”
It was a lame ending. But Caroline was no liar, Strang decided; she was just a sweet little finagler with a tendency to be the defending tigress. George didn’t look as if he needed much defence, though. Strang looked at the fine-boned face, the well-shaped head with its neatly brushed grey hair, the controlled lips, the quietly appraising eyes.
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