Follow a Stranger

The rest of the holiday passed, for Kate, in a dull dream.

She walked, sunbathed and talked to the others without

ever noticing a thing around her. Pallas and Sam were

comfortable companions at that time. They asked little of

her, seemed hardly to notice the depression which was

making her silent and shadoweyed.

Jean-Paul’s grave company was equally peaceful. He

would sit for an hour without speaking to her, his smile

calm and reassuring when she made the effort to speak. It

was with him that she walked over the cliffs, swam and

played a slow game of tennis. He was, she sensed, as

inwardly troubled as she was, and as grateful for her

undemanding company.

Sam did once mention Peter to her, casually, with a

brotherly pat on the shoulder. “I can’t pretend to be sorry

you’ve given him the air, Sis—Peter’s a decent chap, but I

never thought he was for you. You want someone with a bit

more zing.”

She had smiled, briefly, without answering. Peter seemed

like someone from the distant past now. She never thought

of him, and Sam’s comment was an irrelevant intrusion into

the turmoil of her emotions.

The two Frenchwomen, Marie-Louise and Helene, grew

bored with Kianthos once Marc had gone, and two days

later took off in Marc’s plane, which had returned from

ferrying him to Athens.

Marie-Louise tried to persuade Jean-Paul to accompany

them on her last morning on the island.

Calmly finishing his rolls and cherry jam, her half--

brother shook his head. “I am enjoying myself,” he said.