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beauty which reminded her of a postcard come to life.
They tied up at a small jetty and walked up, along
narrow village streets, past the untidy white houses
whose doors all seemed to stand permanently open. Old
women in black sat on some of the doorsteps, shawls over
their grey heads, their wrinkled, tanned faces smiling at
Marc as he walked past. He paused to speak to each one,
gallantly, teasingly, and they giggled at what he said.
Fishermen mending nets waved to him, little boys
begged for drachmae. Everyone seemed to know him and
like him.
They paused at the very top of the hill and he pushed
open high iron gates set in a flinty wall which ran around
a charming, untidy garden, set with cypress and gnarled
old olive trees.
The house was of an ornate, oriental design, the
windows all curves and arches, the stonework fretted.
Kate was so nervous that when Marc, with a sharp
glance, smiled and held her hand as if she were five years
old, she did not protest, but clung to his protection.
“Suppose he’s angry because you brought me?” she
whispered. “He probably prefers his privacy, like most
famous people.”
He squeezed her fingers comfortingly. “Goose! I told
you, he loves pretty blonde girls!”
She giggled, and then the door opened and a fierce old
man, his thick grey moustaches quivering, glared at them
from flashing black eyes.
Marc spoke to him, in Greek, grinning affectionately,
and the old man answered in a low, grumbling voice, his
