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The limousine swept up a smooth tarmac road. Behind a group of trees the house flashed into sight: a long, white villa with green shutters and a flowery creeper spilling along the lower walls. Silk-smooth emerald lawns surrounded it, and beds of gay flowers and shrubs gave it a colourful setting. To the left behind it Leonie caught a glimpse of a swimming pool with a brightly tiled surround. Striped umbrellas gave some shade to the white tables and chairs which stood around the pool.
'It looks like a holiday camp,' she said involuntarily.
Paul laughed shortly. 'For God's sake don't tell Argon your opinion. He wouldn't be amused.'
Neither, she realised, was he, despite his laughter. The blue eyes were hard beneath their pale brows. Paul was, in fact, feeling a rising irritation. He had an affection for Comus which he did not feel for any other place on earth, and this girl's refusal to be impressed annoyed him.
The car pulled up in front of a shady verandah. Grapes grew along the slatted roof, hanging down in green clusters almost in reach of her hand. An old woman in a black dress hobbled out, leaning on a stick, and gave a cry of welcome in Greek. Paul moved quickly towards her and was embraced, kissed on both cheeks, held away so that the tired old blue eyes could study him.
Paul smiled patiently under this, saying something which brought a quick smile to the old woman's wrinkled face. Then he turned and indicated Leonie.
The old woman gave a little cry of obvious pleasure and spoke. Leonie smiled, looked at Paul. 'I don't speak Greek.'
The old woman looked horrified, clearly understanding her. She spoke then in English with a thick Greek accent. 'You do not speak Greek? Ah, how terrible! A Caprel not to speak Greek!'
Paul's insolent gaze made Leonie angry. 'This is an English Caprel,' he drawled. 'Quite a different breed, you will find, but a Caprel, nonetheless, Clyte.'
Clyte was staring openly, her blue eyes taking in every part of Leonie's appearance. 'Yes,' she said at last, 'you are right, Paul. A Caprel—one of the black Caprels.' She smiled at Leonie. 'There are two strains in the family, you know. Some are black- haired, others fair. Your grandfather was dark. You have inherited his colouring. Paul's grandfather was fair.'
Leonie smiled her interest. The old woman spoke quickly in Greek again and Paul laughed.
'Yes, she has the gift of silence, Clyte. She tells me she never speaks if she has nothing to Say.' His lifted eyebrows mocked Leonie gently. 'A rare gift in women.'
'Come quickly now ,to Argon,' the old woman said, taking Leonie's hand. 'He has been waiting impatiently to see you.' She gave her a sly grin. 'You angered him by your letters, but you gave him a great desire to see you.'
'Quarrelling with him already?' Paul asked.
'She returned the money he had paid for her fare here,' Clyte told him, chuckling. 'I have not seen him so excited for a long time. I thought he would have a Stroke. But excitement is good for him. It stirs up his blood. She did him good.'
Paul's glance measured Leonie once more. 'Pride and arrogance,' he said thoughtfully. 'Oh, a Caprel to your fingertips, my dear.'
She burned with anger but did not retort. Clyte, grinning, led the way into the cool interior of the villa. The magnificence of the furnishings took Leonie's breath away. She had never seen such superb decor. The long saloon they entered was marble-floored, pale blue and white, with Greek legends illustrated in mosaic circles here and there. Paintings hung on the walls, and she recognised the styles of some of the greater modern artists, including several early Picasso sketches framed in black wood. The furniture was of the French empire period; ornate, delicate, highly polished. Flowers stood everywhere, their colour giving warmth to the room. The deep-buttoned silken chaise-longue was scattered with matching cushions.
Clyte hobbled past all this without a glance, taking it for granted. Paul watched Leonie's expressive face closely. He wanted her to feel the charm of Comus.
They walked through a marble-floored hall and up a flight of wide, sunlit stairs. Argon Caprel's bedroom was the master suite at the front of the house, facing the broad curve of the blue sea.
Clyte knocked on the closed door, and a deep voice bade them enter. Leonie's swift glance took in the whole room; deep-piled white carpet, silk lamps, fitted wardrobes and dressing-table, a cushioned bedroom chair and the bed which dominated the room.
Seated upright against a heap of pillows was a broad-shouldered old man with white hair and a massive, rock-like countenance from which shone eyes of her own golden brown.
They stared at each other for a long, silent moment. Then Argon Caprel said in his deep voice, 'So! You are the English girl.'
'I am Leonie Wilde,' she countered. 'How are you, Great-grandfather?'
'Stand by the window,' he replied obliquely. 'I want to see you better.'
She stiffened, but obeyed. Three pairs of eyes watched her remorselessly. Rigid-backed, she lifted her chin defiantly, she stared back at them.
'You're your mother's child,' Argon said at last.
'A Caprel,' nodded Clyte, with satisfaction.
Argon flashed her a curious glance, as if asking a question, and Clyte nodded to him again, as if agreeing with an unspoken remark.
'Do you enjoy your job?' Argon asked abruptly.
Leonie was surprised that he knew about it, but nodded. 'Very much. It's exciting work.'
