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