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I mustn’t let him get under my skin like this, she
thought, eyes tight shut. He’s only playing some game or
other. I must keep my defences in place. I must hold on t
o
my love for Peter.
That evening, when she came down for dinner, she
found Marc in the lounge with a small, slender woman of
fifty or so, whose thick black hair, dark eyes and elegant
clothes had the mark of the Parisian. Marc glanced up,
smiling. “Ah, here is Miss Caulfield now, Mama.” He
stood up. “Miss Caulfield, this is my mother.”
Mrs. Lillitos smilingly held out a thin hand. “I am so
pleased to meet you. Pallas has written to me of you so
often that I feel I know you very well. But I cannot think
of you as Miss Caulfield—will you let me call you Kate?
Such a nice name. It always reminds me of Shakespeare.”
Marc broke in teasingly, “Ah, yes—Henry the Fifth!
What does he say: There is witchcraft in your lips, Kate
...” His eyes provoked her openly, and Kate knew herself
to be flushing.
His mother looked round at him, one delicate dark
brow lifted in enquiry. “Marc! You must not be so
teasing!”
He laughed. “Or did you mean Kate from The Taming
of the Shrew, Mama? Kate, the prettiest Kate in
Christendom, sometimes Kate the curst?”
Mrs. Lillitos clicked her tongue. “That was not very
polite, my son. I am surprised at you. Kate is covered with
embarrassment. Say you are sorry at once!”
“Ah, Mama,” he said lightly, “English girls are not
