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great promise.”
He gestured impatiently. “Of course, but the
temperament! She will not work. A musician needs tena-
city, humility, stamina. Pallas lacks them all.”
“Kate has great confidence in her!” said Marc.
“Kate?” Pyrakis stared at her, his blue eyes caressing.
“What a brusque name for such a feminine creature. I
would call her ...” he paused, looking her up and down
slowly until she was once more bright pink. “Penelope!”
he announced in triumph. “Yes, Penelope. She has that
gentle, stubborn look of Homer’s Penelope. Prepared to
wait until eternity for her man. Fragile, delicate but
unbreakable. That is what I like in some blonde
Englishwomen—that look about the mouth that puts up
the fence against all intruders.” He grinned wickedly, at
Marc, his eyes acute. “You have seen it, eh? Oriste? It is
so inviting. How can one resist that cool, sweet mouth?
Any more than a little boy can resist the sign which says
no walking on the grass, eh?”
Marc did not answer, but his face was set in rigid lines
as he stared back at Pyrakis, and the other man lifted his
thick black brows slowly, speaking in Greek.
Marc reddened, but did not reply.
Pyrakis turned back to Kate, his expression more
serious, and said, “So you have confidence in Pallas? Does
she yet care about her work? Does she work hard for you?
Does she worry?”
“I think she is so afraid to care that she pretends to be
indifferent,” said Kate, looking at Marc. “She thinks her
family will never let her have a career, anyway.”
