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the light died and a purple shadow crept over them.
She was reminded of Peter and felt a pang of disloyalty.
He had only been gone a short time and already she was
forgetting she was engaged to him. Marc was far too
experienced in the small art of flirtation for her. She was
not sure whether he was deliberately flirting with her, or if
it was merely a reflex action, but from time to time she
was aware that he was deliberately testing her reactions to
him.
Perhaps he had been piqued by her attitude from their
first meeting? Or perhaps he liked to have a row of scalps
dangling from his belt?
Whatever the reason, those charming smiles, the light,
meaning phrases and the way he touched her neck just
now—they all added up to a flirtation. And she did not
mean to get involved in that sort of folly.
“I think I’ll go in now,” she said, as they approached the
terrace again.
“I’m not in the least tired,” he said. “Are you really
sleepy? You don’t look it. Won’t you play for me first?
Something quiet and gentle?”
She played a piece of soft night music, by Mozart, and
the insidious intricacies gradually drove out all disquieting
thoughts from her head, and restored her sense of humour.
I’m a fool, she thought, her fingers moving delicately
over the keys. Peter leaves me too much alone. I’m making
mountains out of molehills, building ridiculous fantasies.
Marc is just being polite. I must get it into proportion.
When she lifted her hands finally and sat back, Marc
smiled at her. “You have a very pleasant touch.”
