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me,” he said, softly. “These little tips work hard. Either a
typist or a pianist. I suspected a pianist, because of this
...” and he delicately touched the pulse which beat at the
base of her slender throat. “Sensitive, responsive little
creature! Ah, if I were younger! To see that tell-tale beat
stir at my touch!” He sighed romantically.
Kate looked helplessly at Marc’s unresponsive back. “I
... I teach, Mr. Pyrakis, I’m not an artiste ...” she
stammered, trying to withdraw her hands without
seeming rude.
His face relaxed and a great charm flowed out towards
her. “A good teacher is the bounty of heaven,” he said
gently. “I had a wonderful teacher!” He released her
hands and waved her to a chair. Much relieved, she sank
into it, and Marc turned round and also took a seat.
Pyrakis glared at the door. “Where is that fellow, that
thief, that rascal?” he bellowed in rapid Greek, and from
somewhere in the house a loud voice replied in fierce
tones.
Soon the old man reappeared, carrying a little table.
They sat around it, drinking black coffee and nibbling
slices of honey-drenched pastry sprinkled with almonds.
Marc mentioned Pallas and Spiro Pyrakis bared his
teeth.
“Has she begun to work yet, the lazy, idle girl?”
“Miss Caulfield is her teacher. Ask her,” said Marc
lightly, leaning back, his hands on the arms of his chair.
Pyrakis looked at her, one thick brow raised. “What do
you think of her?”
“She is beyond me,” Kate confessed. “I think she has
