Follow a Stranger

Perhaps the older woman found that distasteful. Certainly

the quiet warmth between her and Helene was based, Kate

thought, upon respect for each other.

She washed, cleaned her teeth and got undressed, then

sat, in her frilly white nightie, staring at herself in the

mirror. She was thinner, she thought. There were new

hollows in her cheeks, a blue shadow beneath her eyes. Of

course, she had been ill. Her appetite had not yet recovered

since her attack of sunburn. But that did not account for the

little droop at the corners of her mouth, or for those tell-tale

shadows in her eyes.

A soft knock on her door startled her. She slipped on her

dressing-gown and went to open the door. Her heart leapt

into her throat. She stared, blue eyes wide and frightened,

at Marc.

He was wearing an elegant dark lounge suit, formal

white shirt and dark tie. He looked more like a successful

businessman than ever tonight.

“Yes?” she asked, holding her voice steady by an effort.

He looked at her dressing-gown, which she had not

buttoned, and which showed the scanty white nylon nightie

beneath.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice deep, “I did not realise you

had gone to bed.”

She pulled the dressing-gown closer. “What did you

want?”

“To apologise,” he said abruptly. “May I come in for a

second? We need not close the door, if you are nervous about

the conventions.” Without waiting for an answer, he walked

past her into the room. Kate looked down the corridor, saw