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hall. The room they entered was long, austere and as
shadowy as the hall. Beyond open french windows she
could see a cluster of bushes and tall cypress, whose
branches darkened the room, giving it an undersea look,
a cool greeny light filtering through and spilling over
books, tables, chairs.
In a shabby old armchair sat Spiro Pyrakis, his
leonine head turned towards them.
He rose, holding out his powerful fingers, first to Kate.
Kate. “Mia kyria,” he murmured, his slightly protruding
blue eyes appraising her. Then his polite smile widened.
“Marc,” he said, in charmingly accented English, “you lied
to me, you dog!”
Marc raised an enquiring eyebrow.
“You told me she was pretty,” said Pyrakis. “She is
enchantingly lovely!” And the blue eyes gleamed down on
her. She was not so inexperienced that she could not
recognise the glance of desired possession, and a hot
blus
h rose to her cheeks.
Marc moved restlessly, but said nothing. Pyrakis
raised her fingers, very very slowly, and kissed each one
separately, his eyes still fixed on her pink face.
“What innocence, what delicacy!” he murmured. “To
see her blush is like seeing a rosebud open.”
Marc moved to the window and stood with his back to
them, his hands jammed into his pockets. “She is a
pianist, Spiro, and an admirer of yours.”
“Of course,” purred Pyrakis, smiling. He turned Kate’s
hands over, inspecting them. “Your fingers told tales to
