Follow a Stranger

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