Song Above the Clouds by Rosemary Pollock

standing alone in front of the fireplace, staring into the rosy-hued cocktail in his glass as if it were a crystal ball, and the Italian with the greying hair whom Candy had seen with the Contessa was also alone, gazing through one of the uncurtained windows into the clear, starlit night. The couple whose arrival had interrupted his conversation with his hostess were there too, and just as Candy entered the room the man moved purposefully over to the Contessa, with the evident intention of attracting some of her attention to himself. He was tall and lean, with a slight stoop, and an American accent which could probably have been heard easily on the other side of the heavy oak door. The girl who had arrived with him was left sitting alone and looking rather bewildered, and as she glanced at her with mild curiosity Candy realized that she was from the East—possibly from Japan. She was wearing a romantically beautiful evening dress of heavy, gleaming silk in which glowing reds and golds blended luxuriantly, and everything about her small, neat figure was almost unbelievably delicate and doll-like.
    On impulse, and partly because of a subconscious feeling that they were both in a sense outsiders, Candy sat down beside the little silk-clad s hape and smiled at her. It didn’t seem to her to matter that they hadn’t been introduced, for if she was not simply to run out of the house in an agony of unhappiness and embarrassment she had to talk to somebody, and she saw nobody else to w hom it would be possible to attach herself.
    The girl smiled back, revealing extraordinarily pretty teeth, and in precise, slightly accented English she murmured something formal and predictable about the beauty of the room, and the excellence of the Contessa’s central heating. And then to Candy’s astonishment and horror, her slanting brown eyes suddenly filled with tears, and her small mouth puckered. The tears overflowed and began to roll down her cheeks, and then she started to sob audibly .. . little, subdued, choking sobs that despite their unobtrusiveness had a powerful and immediate impact on the whole of the room.
    Everyone looked round as swiftly as if the girl had stood up and screamed, and one by one they all stopped talking. In the silence the two Italian women on the sofa stared across incredulously at their fellow-guest—the elder with mounting disapproval in every line of her heavy-jowled face, the younger open-mouthed and fascinated—and the men froze where they stood.
    Only the Contessa remained in command of the situation. A bare half-glance had evidently been enough to allow her to take in what was happening, and once she had taken it in she tactfully avoided looking a second time. Instead, she glanced with very slightly upraised eyebrows at the girl’s husband, into whose sallow cheeks a dull red flush was slowly creeping, and muttering something the American left her and walked over to his wife.
    “Listen, stop it, will you?” Candy didn’t want to listen, but she couldn’t help overhearing the half whispered words. The man had so placed himself that he was between the weeping girl and most of the other people present, and only Candy, who for some reason hadn’t thought of moving away, saw the look in her eyes as she lifted her distorted face.
    “I can’t bear it !” The girl’s soft voice was hoarse and choked. “I can’t—not any more! Not any more, Lester. I’m telling you the truth.”
    “Okay, okay.” He seemed to be keeping his temper in check with an effort. “Just let’s get out of here. Where’s your coat?” He put out a hand to pull the small, hysterical figure to her feet, but as he did so she pushed him away, and the next instant she had jumped up and almost literally flown at him, first pounding on his chest with her tiny clenched fists and then actually tearing at his startled face with her sharply pointed, silvery finger-nails.
    “Why don’t you get a divorce and marry her?” Her voice,