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she took of him.
Pallas looked sideways at Marc, who was standing
silently listening, his hands jammed in his pockets.
“Well,” she said, laughing rather falsely, “we must go,
Kate. See you some time.”
Hating herself, yet unable to help it, Kate let her eyes
flicker over Marc’s dark, rigid face. Their eyes met. Hers
shrank and fell before the look in his. Then he and
Pallas had vanished and she was walking out of the
theatre with Jean-Paul.
They drove along the riverside slowly, neither in a
mood for talking. Kate hardly noticed where they drove
after that. By common consent they seemed to drift on in
the red sports car, through street after silent street.
When the car stopped Jean-Paul looked up at the
narrow house, then at her, with surprise. “Oh, I am so
sorry, Kate—I have brought you to my own apartment
by mistake.” He grimaced. “And it is an error, I assure
you, not a trick.”
She smiled. “I’m sure it is, Jean-Paul.” Then she
looked at her watch and gasped in horror. “Good
heavens, look at the time! It’s two o’clock! What will the
Murrays think? I haven’t got a key. I’ll have to knock
them up.”
He exclaimed apologetically, “It is my fault! I forgot
the time! I am so sorry. But look, come in for a cup of
chocolate before you go. I am too tired to think properly
but too depressed to think of sleep The Murrays will
understand. After all, one is not in Paris for nothing!
They will make assumptions, yes, but charitable ones!”
