face like a cloud through her exertions, to give her an extremely youthful aspect. But not a strand of Miss Kinsale's tight, glossy bun was out of place, nor had her frock been greatly disarranged. She glanced at her feet and remarked, 'Oh, dear, I'm afraid I've spoilt my shoes.'
The Beamer's highly-coloured face rising from his neckband, and his braces gave him rather the look of somebody's gardener. Pam, in her slip, her long frock carried over one arm, looked even more incongruous with her naďve blue eyes and English complexion.
Manny Rosen said, 'You all right, Mamma?' With his coat removed, one saw the waistband of his trousers was not pulled quite over his belly. What was left of his hair was greying. He had worried brown eyes and a baby's mouth.
She replied, 'Look, my dress is all torn.'
He said, 'You shouldn't have worse worries.'
She hauled it up to assess the damage and showed fat knees and thick legs descending seemingly without ankles to attach to tiny feet wedged into low-heeled black satin slippers. She had rather a motherly face above her several chins. Behind horn-rimmed spectacles, the dark eyes were still youthful, although she had passed sixty, and gave her an expression that was slightly roguish at times. Her hair, of which she was very proud, was blue-black and still unchanged -- she was always saying, 'Everybody thinks I'm touching it up, but I don't. My grandmother's hair was like this when she was seventy' -- and she wore it in two braids across the top of her head. She had an expensive diamond flower brooch clipped at her left shoulder. It caught her attention now and she took it off quickly, saying, 'Oh my goodness, Manny! You'd better put this in your pocket. I wouldn't want to lose it.'
James Martin asked, 'What was with the lights?'
Shelby said, 'They were probably on two banks of batteries. When one went out there was an automatic switch-over.'
Robin Shelby whispered to his sister, 'See? What did I tell you?'
Susan said, 'Okay, Spaceman! What would we do without you?'
Muller asked, 'What happened to our guide fellow?' and Martin replied, 'He blew.'
But Scott added, 'We don't need him. The staircase ought to be along here on the left. Let's go.'
They had just begun to move off behind Scott and Miss Kinsale, when they heard the distant sound of scrabbling uncertain footsteps.
The Beamer cried, 'Hold it! I think, the blighter's coming back.'
They stopped and turned to look. It was not the Greek, however, but a girl.
As she approached they saw that she was clad in a pink dressing-gown with swansdown lapels, collar and trim. Trying to run, she was slipping and sliding on the uneven surface, yet miraculously keeping her feet which were encased in soft, black leather dancing pumps. As she came on, she was crying in a curiously monotone cadence, like a whipped child that cannot stop, one wavering note of grief repeating itself over and over. And whenever her feet went between two conduits, it would emphasize her sobbing wail, as did each fresh breath she managed to draw. She held her dressing-gown pulled together over her breasts with her left hand and balanced herself with her right. Her hair, tumbling to her shoulders, was a true lightish red. She had not discovered the group as yet, for she was running in blind panic with her head down.
Rogo brought her up short a few yards away from them with a sharp cry of, 'Hey, there, Nonnie! Where the hell do you think you're going?'
Her sobbing turned into a scream of fright as she stood stock still, staring at them, both hands now clutching the dressing-gown about her throat. She had paused directly above one of the inset lights and they saw that the face beneath the hair, even with its dead white skin and pale green eyes swollen from crying, yet managed to be attractive.
It was an extraordinary one in that the fluffy aureole of fox-coloured hair emphasized that it was just too small and its features that much too tiny, as though everything --
The Beamer's highly-coloured face rising from his neckband, and his braces gave him rather the look of somebody's gardener. Pam, in her slip, her long frock carried over one arm, looked even more incongruous with her naďve blue eyes and English complexion.
Manny Rosen said, 'You all right, Mamma?' With his coat removed, one saw the waistband of his trousers was not pulled quite over his belly. What was left of his hair was greying. He had worried brown eyes and a baby's mouth.
She replied, 'Look, my dress is all torn.'
He said, 'You shouldn't have worse worries.'
She hauled it up to assess the damage and showed fat knees and thick legs descending seemingly without ankles to attach to tiny feet wedged into low-heeled black satin slippers. She had rather a motherly face above her several chins. Behind horn-rimmed spectacles, the dark eyes were still youthful, although she had passed sixty, and gave her an expression that was slightly roguish at times. Her hair, of which she was very proud, was blue-black and still unchanged -- she was always saying, 'Everybody thinks I'm touching it up, but I don't. My grandmother's hair was like this when she was seventy' -- and she wore it in two braids across the top of her head. She had an expensive diamond flower brooch clipped at her left shoulder. It caught her attention now and she took it off quickly, saying, 'Oh my goodness, Manny! You'd better put this in your pocket. I wouldn't want to lose it.'
James Martin asked, 'What was with the lights?'
Shelby said, 'They were probably on two banks of batteries. When one went out there was an automatic switch-over.'
Robin Shelby whispered to his sister, 'See? What did I tell you?'
Susan said, 'Okay, Spaceman! What would we do without you?'
Muller asked, 'What happened to our guide fellow?' and Martin replied, 'He blew.'
But Scott added, 'We don't need him. The staircase ought to be along here on the left. Let's go.'
They had just begun to move off behind Scott and Miss Kinsale, when they heard the distant sound of scrabbling uncertain footsteps.
The Beamer cried, 'Hold it! I think, the blighter's coming back.'
They stopped and turned to look. It was not the Greek, however, but a girl.
As she approached they saw that she was clad in a pink dressing-gown with swansdown lapels, collar and trim. Trying to run, she was slipping and sliding on the uneven surface, yet miraculously keeping her feet which were encased in soft, black leather dancing pumps. As she came on, she was crying in a curiously monotone cadence, like a whipped child that cannot stop, one wavering note of grief repeating itself over and over. And whenever her feet went between two conduits, it would emphasize her sobbing wail, as did each fresh breath she managed to draw. She held her dressing-gown pulled together over her breasts with her left hand and balanced herself with her right. Her hair, tumbling to her shoulders, was a true lightish red. She had not discovered the group as yet, for she was running in blind panic with her head down.
Rogo brought her up short a few yards away from them with a sharp cry of, 'Hey, there, Nonnie! Where the hell do you think you're going?'
Her sobbing turned into a scream of fright as she stood stock still, staring at them, both hands now clutching the dressing-gown about her throat. She had paused directly above one of the inset lights and they saw that the face beneath the hair, even with its dead white skin and pale green eyes swollen from crying, yet managed to be attractive.
It was an extraordinary one in that the fluffy aureole of fox-coloured hair emphasized that it was just too small and its features that much too tiny, as though everything --
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