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The rest of the holiday passed, for Kate, in a dull dream.
She walked, sunbathed and talked to the others without
ever noticing a thing around her. Pallas and Sam were
comfortable companions at that time. They asked little of
her, seemed hardly to notice the depression which was
making her silent and shadoweyed.
Jean-Paul’s grave company was equally peaceful. He
would sit for an hour without speaking to her, his smile
calm and reassuring when she made the effort to speak. It
was with him that she walked over the cliffs, swam and
played a slow game of tennis. He was, she sensed, as
inwardly troubled as she was, and as grateful for her
undemanding company.
Sam did once mention Peter to her, casually, with a
brotherly pat on the shoulder. “I can’t pretend to be sorry
you’ve given him the air, Sis—Peter’s a decent chap, but I
never thought he was for you. You want someone with a bit
more zing.”
She had smiled, briefly, without answering. Peter seemed
like someone from the distant past now. She never thought
of him, and Sam’s comment was an irrelevant intrusion into
the turmoil of her emotions.
The two Frenchwomen, Marie-Louise and Helene, grew
bored with Kianthos once Marc had gone, and two days
later took off in Marc’s plane, which had returned from
ferrying him to Athens.
Marie-Louise tried to persuade Jean-Paul to accompany
them on her last morning on the island.
Calmly finishing his rolls and cherry jam, her half--
brother shook his head. “I am enjoying myself,” he said.
