Not Far from Heaven

CHAPTER ONE FROST and darkness descended together as the bleak January afternoon drew to its close. Mary drew the curtains together and turned to her father, standing for a moment to stare at the wasted features, the glittering blue eyes and thin, peevish set of the mouth. Giving a small sigh, she went over to the bed and, easing up his head, punched the top pillow so that it would afford him more comfort. `Turn that light out when you go,' he snapped. `I've told you to get a smaller bulb in here!' `Yes, Father; I'll remember to buy one the next time I go out.' `You said that yesterday.' `I'll remember tomorrow,' she promised gently, and left the room. In the kitchen the sprouts were boiling over, filling the room with steam. The sink was full of water and the spin-dryer had for some reason switched itself off. From the shed outside Mary brought in a long wire with which she began poking at the drain in the sink; to her relief the water soon disappeared. She then opened the dryer and took out the wet clothes. An electrician would have to be brought in tomorrow, she decided, hoping the cause of the trouble would prove to be nothing more serious than a faulty switch. `Mary ..: sang a voice from the living-room. `What time is dinner? I'm famished!' `It'll be served when the others come in, as usual.' Her sister appeared at the kitchen door, her vivid blue eyes raking Mary with an expression of contempt. `You look awful,' she declared, leaning against the door jamb and breathing on her scarlet fingernails. `Would you like to see to the table?' Mary indicated a tray already laid with cutlery and the cruet. `There'll be seven of us; both Joe

and Richard are bringing their girl-friends.' `Carol's coming? I can't abide the girl. I hope Richard isn't going to marry her.' `I wouldn't know. He's had about a couple of dozen girls already, so I don't expect he's serious with this one.' `I shall be bringing a boy-friend home on Sunday.' `Not Sunday, Pauline. I do manage to take things a bit easier on that one day in the week.' `I'm going steady with Michael, so naturally I want him to meet the family.' `Then bring him on Saturday. Suzanne's bringing James.' Pauline blew on her nails again, but this time it was a long exhalation of impatience. `I detest belonging to so large a family! There'll be dozens of us by the time we've all got married and begun breeding.' Mary frowned at her. `Can't you be a little more delicate?' she asked mildly, and Pauline laughed. At seventeen she truly believed she knew it all, and that her sister, eight years her senior, knew nothing. Already she was on the shelf, Pauline had sneered over and over again. `What an old-fashioned puss you are! You'll be one that'll never breed, that's for sure. No one would ever want you, with your tired eyes and drooping mouth and those funnylooking garments that suffice as clothes.' Mary winced, but chose to let slide without comment all that Pauline had said. Draining the sprouts in the colander, she then turned them into a heat-proof bowl which she put into the oven. The meat was cooking nicely, and the potatoes browning all around it in the roasting tin. `If you'll take that tray-' Again she indicated it, but Pauline was already sliding away, returning to the living-room where she put her latest pop record on to the record player. The noise was deafening. `Please remember Father's up above this room,' snapped Mary, going to the door. `Oh, him! How he does drag on! I don't know how you can bear to look after him; he looks

as if he's rotting away-' `Be quiet!' `All right. But you're crazy!' `Crazy looking after you - and the rest! Something's going to explode if you and Suzanne don't begin pulling your weight. I didn't mind when you were all small - in fact, when Mother died I felt it was my duty, naturally, to try and take her place. But you're all older now and it's time you stopped taking so much for granted. You're seventeen and Suzanne's eighteen. The boys are both in their twenties now and they're going to have to lend a hand as well. Why should I have to go searching for a handyman to do the jobs around the house when I've two strapping brothers?' `You've spoiled us all,' returned Pauline with a petulant lift of her shoulders. `It's coming to an end.' But Mary knew she was making idle threats, as she had made them so often before. She would never bring about any major changes in her lot until her brothers and sisters were married, and her father ... The doctor had given her father six to nine months, that was all. He was a difficult patient and more than one neighbour had advised her to have him taken into hospital. But always Mary would remember how dearly her mother had loved him and she could not bring herself to let him end up among strangers. But she did wish the others would help with him, and sit and read to him sometimes. It all fell to her, because they had other pursuits - especially now when they were finding friends of the opposite sex. And they casually brought these friends home for meals, expecting Mary to wait on them without so much as a grumble. `Mary!' Richard came through the door clutching his latest girlfriend's hand in his. `Gosh, it's cold outside! Have you got something good-?' He sniffed and smiled. `Roast beef and Yorkshire pud! Sit down, Carol, and get warm. Put your hands on the radiator.' He went up to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. Mary heard him singing, heard her father's voice complaining, then silence except for the cistern filling up.

She took out the huge roasting tin and the fat sizzled and caught her wrist. What did it matter? She had numerous tiny burns and scratches; another was not to be cried over ... The following day Suzanne came home early and stood for a long while in the centre of the kitchen floor. `I'm having a baby,' she said at last, and her sister turned, a half-peeled potato in one hand and a knife in the other. Her deep blue eyes flickered and she shook her head. 'No ‘ The younger girl's face twisted impatiently. `For the lord's sake get with it, Mary! It's happening all the time.' `Yes, I suppose it is-' Mechanically Mary allowed her eyes to wander over Suzanne's delectable curves. `When are you and James getting married?' `Married?' Suzanne's eyes widened. `You must be joking! I'm not tying myself down for a hell of a long time yet!' `I see.' Mary put down what she had in her hands and reached for a towel. `Why, if you'd no intention of getting married, did you allow yourself to - er - to-?' She stopped and went red. Suzanne said with a laugh, `Get myself with child? Is that a genteel enough way of saying it? Dear Mary, I really don't know what's to become of you. You're living a century behind the times!' `Not a century, Suzanne. A few years, perhaps-' `What does it matter? About this baby. You'll think that I want my head seeing to - but I've a mind to keep it. Avril Jones has kept hers and she gets a marvellous allowance from the State. I wouldn't have to go out to work.' Mary's usually placid nature was outraged. She flared as Suzanne had never seen her flare before. `If you think for one moment that I'm going to look after your child while you go out every night enjoying yourself then you can think again! And as for staying at home - at your age! You should be working - earning your keep! Who do you think you are that the State should keep you in idleness! I'm

absolutely disgusted with you-' `Oh, shut up! I haven't asked you to baby-sit at night-' `Knowing you,' cut in Mary, not realizing that she was shouting so loudly that she could be heard by the invalid above, `you'll be out dancing and going to parties as usual. No, you can make arrangements to have the child adopted!' `There's Father, banging on the wall.' Suzanne frowned censoriously at her sister, noting her red face and damp forehead, her untidy hair and greasy apron. `You've wakened him. I should have thought you'd have had more sense. He'll be wanting something now, you can bet your life. But I'm not going up to him. You're used to him, I'm not - nor have I any intention of getting used to him.' Mary took him up a tea tray, listened while he grumbled at the noise and wept bitterly once she was out of the room and the door had closed behind her. There was no peace, no end to the drudgery and the complaints. And now ... now there was to be a child. But it must be adopted, she determined. She was drudge enough without becoming a nursemaid into the bargain. The rest of the family heard the news with equanimity, Richard saying that if Suzanne wanted to keep the child then it was her own affair. Certain it had nothing to do with the rest of the family. `We'll all be married in a couple of years,' he prophesied, `and so there'll be nothing for Mary to do.' She looked at him through kindling eyes. `Does it never occur to you that I might want to get about myself - have some enjoyment and perhaps find myself a husband? You all consider me a dowd, with no possible chance of getting married. But I might as well tell you that all these years I've been waiting for the time when I'll be free to live my own life, when I'll be able to go to the hairdressers because I'm in a job earning money. I'll buy clothes and make-up, and - and go for a holiday-' She was practically screaming, and

the two boys began to look alarmed. Mary was as staid as her name; she never became ruffled no matter what happened. Richard recalled vividly how she had coped when they'd all had measles in one go. `You're ill,' he decided, frowning. `Hysterics aren't nor-mally in your line. Stay still, I'll get you a spot of brandy.' `I don't want brandy! I want help and cooperation and a little gratitude! Go away, all of you-! Go out of the house!' `Get her to bed.' Richard thumbed towards Suzanne. 'Pauline, you help her. We can't have Mary ill-' `No!' Rising, Mary actually picked up a cup of tea and glanced around, deciding whether or not to throw it. Everyone gasped, and waited. `No - Mary mustn't be ill! Mary's never been ill, has she? Heaven help her if she was, for none of you would know how to make her a piece of toast-' `Mary,' intervened Joe in a soothing tone, `you know very well that we'd look after you if you were ill. Let me help the girls to get you to bed and I'll bring you up a nice cup of tea.' But Mary scarcely heard; she was weeping hysterically, the cup of tea spilling over on to the table-cloth. She had come to the end and her nerves were ready to snap at any moment. She was well aware of this and although she had no control over her tears and sobs she was, quite subconsciously, making a tremendous effort to control any strong emotion that could result in a really frenzied outburst that would disgrace herself for ever in her own eyes. `The baby's the last straw,' she sobbed. `I can't have the trouble - not even of an expectant mother. I've enough to do.' `You mean,' cut in Suzanne frigidly, `that you'd like to turn me out?' `Don't be ridiculous,' snapped Joe. `Do as you're told and get Mary to bed.' Mary shook her head, and lifting her apron she dried her cheeks. `I'll lie down, but I don't need any help - or any tea,' she added with a glance at Joe. `I'm sorry for this upset-' Her lips quivered uncontrollably. `I don't suppose I ever

intended throwing this at anyone.' She placed the cup on its saucer. `Not seeing that it would have fallen to me to clean up the mess,' she said, and gave them a bitter glance in turn. The two boys looked away, the girls bit their lips. Once in her room with the door closed Mary sank down on the stool by the dressing-table and looked long and hard at her mother's photograph. Very beautiful she had been in her youth, and those neighbours who remembered her always maintained that Mary could be like her if only she wasn't worn down by work. Glancing in the mirror, Mary saw only a red face and puffed-up eyes, hair that hung like rats' tails because of its subjection to the grease and steam of the kitchen. Her hands caused her to shudder and yet because she had glanced at them she opened a small box and took out her mother's wedding ring. A deep band of gold, quite plain. Mary slipped it on to her finger and felt strangely comforted. Perhaps it was morbid, she thought, but she always felt at peace when she wore her mother's ring. She left it on, looked at it, saw her hand trembling and wondered if she really were on the verge of some nervous com-plaint. Her inside was shaky and when she stood up at length her legs felt like jelly. It had been foolish to get herself all worked up like that. She felt it would take her days to get back to normal. Her hair began to worry her and she went along to the bathroom with the intention of washing it. She would use a little of that expensive shampoo of Pauline's. The door was locked and she turned away. It was always difficult to get into the bathroom at this time of the evening, with the four younger members of the family wanting to rush off out, all on pleasure bent. Going downstairs, she washed her hair over the sink, using the green soft soap she kept for scrubbing the kitchen floor. Soft soap was very good for the hair, so it was said. Calling to Pauline as she passed her door a few minutes later, she asked if she might borrow her hair-dryer. `Of course. Come and get it.'

`Thank you.' Mary wasted no time in talking but hurried back to her own room and plugged in the dryer. What was the matter with her? Why this urgency? She wasn't going anywhere. While her hair was drying she creamed her face several times and wiped off the cream with tissues. She filed her nails and rubbed them hard with the towel she had round her shoulders. More cream was used, this time on her hands. Not that it did much good, she thought. It would take weeks to get her hands soft and white - weeks of just doing nothing. She heard the front door bang, then again and again. Joe was left. He was always the last, being rather less aggressive when it came to pouncing on the bathroom. But at length he also went out and Mary felt as if a great load had been lifted from her shoulders. Yet there was plenty to do downstairs - the dinner dishes for one thing, for she didn't expect that anyone had even thought of clearing the table, let alone washing the crockery. When her hair was dry she brushed it vigorously, smiling with satisfaction as it shone. The colour of deep rich gold, it most attractively enhanced the violet blue of her eyes. Her mouth was full and wide, her forehead clear in spite of the troubles and anxieties that seemed to be forever weighing her down. The cream used on her hands made them soft, and her nails were quite a nice shape, she thought. The wed-ding ring was smeared with cream and she went along to the bathroom with the intention of washing her hands. She ended up by getting into the bath - although the water was only tepid, since a great deal had been run during the past hour. She lay in the bath, dreaming of the future when she would be free. The man she would marry would be very tall and very dark bronzed by the sun. And he'd be handsome, of course. Always the picture was the same ... `And now,' she said on getting out of the bath fifteen minutes later, `if only I had a pretty dress . . .' Daringly she went along to Pauline's room and chose a smart little linen

suit which could go under her mackintoshShe frowned at her reflection in Pauline's mirror. She wasn't going anywhere . , . The night was black as she stepped out. Her father was asleep, and once asleep at night he never woke until the morning. Nevertheless, Mary knocked on her neighbour's door and when Mrs. Leigh appeared she asked if she would mind listening for her father. `I have to go out,' she ended lamely. `On a night like this, dear? Oh, well, if you must, you must. Yes, of course I'll listen. As I've said many a time, I can always hear him when he knocks on the wall with that cane of his. You've left a key under the mat, have you?' `Yes, Mrs. Leigh. It's very good of you-' `Not at all. Any time, as you should know by now, seeing as I always listen when you go out to do your shop-ping. What a night! Your own fireside's the place to be. I expect your lot have gone to see the film, or maybe they're dancing?' `I expect so. They usually prefer dancing to a film.' Mary was fidgeting, and she was cold. She wanted only to go inside again, put on her apron, and tackle those dishes. After that the evening was her own until they all came in for supper, and she could read her book by the fire. But how could she go back in now after saying she had to go out? She shivered and Mrs. Leigh said, `Hurry off and do what you have to do, dear. You know, you yourself should go and see that film some time - you do know the one I mean? The one about that marvellous escape from a prison camp?' `Yes. It's very good, according to the newspaper reports.' The film ... It was in Crewe ... Half an hour later she was on the train and by half past eight she was in the cinema. But she still suffered from the after-effects of her nervous outburst and she had difficulty in concentrating. She kept thinking of her father and of the trains back, realizing that if

she missed the ten-forty-five she would have an hour and a half to wait, in which case everyone at home would be wondering where she was. With these vexing thoughts in her mind Mary could not enjoy the film, and long before it ended she was again out in the biting cold and mist, walking swiftly to the station. The train was in and she thank-fully boarded it. The warmth was welcome after the bitter air outside and she sank down in the comfortable seat and tried to relax. She was conscious of the train pulling out of the station, and then she knew no more until she heard the ticket collector's voice asking for her ticket. Sitting up straight, she fumbled for it and handed it to him, peering through the window at the blackness outside. `Old Hartford?' The man looked sternly at her. `Is that where you were bound for?' `Were?' Her heart gave a lurch. `Have we passed it?' `This train's a non-stop to Euston-' `London!' She made to stand up, then sank down again. `Whatever shall I do? Can't you stop it?' she asked absurdly, scarcely aware of what she was saying. London ... `I'm on the wrong train - and I fell asleep.' Tears welled up. This indeed was the limit. She felt she could have lain down and died. Thinking was a strain; she had no money, for one thing; and another fact that struck her was that she would be arriving in London in the early hours of the morning. She would have to sit in a cold draughty waiting-room until tomorrow morning, when she could get another train up - if she was allowed to travel without a ticket, that was. `If - if only I could get off.' She looked up at him. `Are you sure it doesn't stop?, 'I ought to know, miss. It doesn't stop.' `I'll have to pay later,' she faltered. `Do you think they'll let me come back without a ticket?' She broke off, aware of a young man sitting on the opposite side of the long compartment; he was very interested indeed in what was going on. `I expect you'll be able to pay later, under the circum-stances.' He retained her ticket. `I'll see you when we get there.' He didn't move

away at once, but stood watching as the tears rolled down her pallid cheeks. `You can get a nice hot cup of coffee - just along here.' He thumbed up the train and she nodded. She just wanted him to go, so that the interested young man would mind his own business behind the newspaper he'd been reading. As for the coffee - she felt it would choke her. Nothing could be bleaker than a railway station in the early hours of the morning in the middle of January, Mary thought as she got off the train at last, one half of her mind with those at home, who would be wondering where on earth she was - especially after that scene. They would surely be exceedingly anxious, perhaps thinking she might be wandering about, not quite right in her mind! The other half of her thoughts were taken up with her plight and the fact that she must sit for hour after hour in the waiting-room. There being no official on the station at this time it was the guard who took her name and address, giving her a look of frowning impatience as he did so. She would have to see someone later about getting home, he told her, and went off, stuffing into his coat pocket the paper on which her name and address was written. Her eyes followed his retreating figure; she saw him go into his pocket for a handkerchief, saw the paper come out with it and fall to the ground. The man was striding along swiftly and after a slight move to run and retrieve the paper, Mary changed her mind. The paper, caught by a gust of wind, was lost behind one of the huge pillars supporting the roof. Little did Mary guess that the loss of this piece of paper was to bring about incredible changes in her life as, turn-ing at last, she strolled towards the waiting-room. Through the open door she observed many people huddled on the seats, coat collars turned up; others were trying to stretch out, newspapers spread over their legs. Feeling she must surely suffocate if she went in there, she began walking about, the sole occupant of the wide space where the shops were

situated. Tears flowed; she had never felt so spent and unhappy, so utterly helpless, and so very cold that her teeth chattered. What she would give for a bed! Would one of the hotels trust her? she wondered. No one would believe her tale, she decided, yet she found herself walking off the station, and making for a small hotel that she could see. The night porter eyed her sleepily and shook his head even before she had opened her mouth. `Full up.' `Thank you.' A police station. That was the sensible thing to do. But where would she find one? One or two men were walking about, eyeing her in such a way that she had difficulty in not turning and running back to the station. An old man - appearing very wealthy - got out of a taxi and into another car which was waiting by the curb. What strange things went on, she thought, feeling that London was not the place she would ever come to again as long as she lived. Dare she ask one of these men to direct her to the police station? They looked so peculiar - so frightening. No, she must not stop one of them, she decided, and walked on, rather briskly so as to disillusion them about anything they might be thinking. How long she walked she had no idea, but she did come at last to admit that to find a police station just by chance would be the kind of luck that certainly was not hers tonight. And there wasn't even a policeman walking about. She had always believed there were hundreds walking the London streets at night. Perhaps there were, but unfortunately they did not happen to be just here. Suddenly she was aware of prickles running along her spine and, turning, she saw a man following her, and at a brisk pace that must soon bring him abreast of her. Her heart turned over; she tried to recover her composure, telling herself that there was no indication as yet that he meant to accost her. He might just be in a hurry to get somewhere. But there was something so purposeful about him that she thought only of getting out of his

way. Her nerves were playing her up, she realized, angry with her-self for that outburst, that loss of control that had set her whole nervous system out of order. Her legs became weak as every pulse in her body throbbed; her heart was thumping and even her brain was affected, clear thought becoming impossible. She began to skip, then to run; the footsteps behind her quickened and what presently over-came Mary was the very primitive urgency of self-protection. Not another soul was now about and, in a sort of wild panic, she decided to cross to the other side of the road. In this way she would at least know whether or not the man was following her. She was still running when she stepped off the curb; a taxi swung at speed round the corner and all Mary heard was a screeching of brakes before blackness swept down upon her. `Mary ... Mary ... Try to remember. ..' She heard the quiet voice and her face twisted. The white-coated man again. He worried her and she closed her eyes, turning her face into the pillow. Some things were clear at times people and streets and buildings, but she had no idea who or where they were. Of her life she knew nothing- `Mary ... we're trying to help you. We want to bring your husband to you.' `I know.' Mary sighed and turned, moistening her lips in her effort to speak. These people were merely being kind, but if only they knew just how they were harassing her. `You keep asking me these questions-' She stopped and stared appealingly at him. `It isn't any use. I can't even remember being knocked down. You say I was, and you say my name is Mary but it might not be Mary at all.' She went on to say that she did not know where she came from, reminding him that she had said this many times before. `It's no use your continuing to question me,' she ended, succumbing again to the state of lethargy which was so preferable to the strain of trying to think. All she desired was to lie still and quiet, using neither mind nor body. She felt as if she were half in and half out of a coma;

it would be a lot easier to drift away than to hold on to life, she often thought. She had been in the hospital for over a fortnight, so she had been told yester-day - or was it the day before? Time had no meaning anyway, not when she was drifting from sleep to a dazed sort of wakefulness and then to sleep again. When she was awake she suffered a terrible throbbing in her head and it was a relief when she saw the nurse appear with a drug which both eased the pain and took her away from her surroundings again, away into oblivion where there was no one nagging her with questions. `It's quite true we don't know if your name is Mary,' the doctor was saying gently. `But I did tell you that we found a small card in your handbag with written on it: "To Mary with love from Mrs. Leigh". It's probably been presented to you with a gift - perhaps a birthday gift. Can you remember anything about Mrs. Leigh?' `No, I can't.' She shook her head and gave him a glazed stare. `It isn't any use,' she moaned, and started to cry. `All right, Mary, we'll leave it for today. But your husband must be almost out of his mind with worry. Try to keep that thought with you if you can.' `My husband . . .' She could not imagine herself with a husband, so how could she keep his anxiety in mind? `Why hasn't he made inquiries about me?' `This is something we can't understand. Neither he nor any other relative has made inquiries about you.' `I must be alone in the world, then,' she pointed out reasonably, and the doctor nodded. `You do have a husband, though - at least we hope you have.' She tried to concentrate. A great dread was creeping over her and she realized that under the bedcovers she was gripping her hands together as this dread became stronger and stronger within her. Her mind seemed to be clearing a little and she could now remember things the doctor and the nurses had said to her. She'd been unconscious for five days;

there had been nothing in her bag to help identification. It was three o'clock in the morning when she was brought into the hospital and the doctor had repeatedly asked her what she was doing walking thee streets of London at that time, all alone. She was about twenty-five years old, one of the nurses had said, and a mirror had been brought to her one day. All that stood out was the heavy bandages on her head and the great bruises on her face and neck. Her hands had been bandaged at first; her legs were still bandaged and her back felt as if it were broken. It was only bruised ... yes, she did remember the doctor telling her this. The objects in the small private ward became hazy; she closed her eyes and gave herself up to sleep. But less than half an hour later she was awake again, and a nurse immediately appeared by the bed. `Mary ...' Softly the name came from the girl's lips. `How are you feeling? Would you like a nice hot cup of tea?' `Yes, please.' It was brought; the nurse stayed with her as she drank it. ,Your husband, Mary,' the nurse began, when Mary interrupted her. `What makes you so sure I have a husband?' she wanted to know, her brow creased in a frown. `This.' The nurse pointed to the wedding ring. `He'll be dreadfully anxious about you.' `I'm sorry. It isn't any use, nurse; I can't tell you any-thing.' A small sigh and then the nurse took the empty tea cup and went away, leaving Mary alone, staring through the window opposite at the trees outside. They were seen through a mist, for it was another bleak January day. Mary was still sitting up, propped against the pillows, and she seemed not to be quite so lethargic as she had been up till now. It was one of those periods when her mind became clearer and she found herself wondering about this husband. She didn't want to go back to him, because she didn't know him and yet, paradoxically, she

fervently wished he would come for her, just to prove that she had someone in the world to whom she belonged. The doctor had asked her what her husband looked like, trying to awaken some response in her, but he had failed. However, although she remembered nothing of his features or his personal traits, she was able to to tell the doctor that he was very tall and dark, and exceptionally goodlooking. From where this description came she could not explain; it seemed to her that it was something that was indelibly imprinted on her mind even though there was nothing in any way concrete about it. Tall, dark and handsome ... It really didn't mean a thing. `You know that much?' The doctor had appeared inor-dinately puzzled by this apparent flutter of memory. `You can see his face?' Mary shook her head before despairingly turning her face into the pillow. `No,' she said, `I can't see him at all. I only know that he's tall and good-looking, and very dark.' CHAPTER TWO JANUARY came to an end, merging almost imperceptibly into the similar weather of February. Wrapping herself in a big camel coat she had been given, Mary went out into the hospital gardens. Despite the frost in the air the sun shone, and little green shoots were springing up all over the place and she stood by a herbaceous border trying to picture what it would be like in the spring. And then a frown creased her brow and she gave a great sigh. `What was that for?' She spun round as the voice cut her thoughts, and a swift smile lit her eyes. `Hello, Don. I'm sighing for what is lost.' He nodded. A rather good-looking, well-bred man of about thirty-five, he was in the luxurious annexe of the hospital recuperating from the depressing after-affects of a serious operation. He and Mary had become friends, but he would soon be leaving and once again she would be left to her own dismal

reflections. `It's so odd that no one has turned up to claim you.' `I think I must be an orphan, and that my husband might be dead. That's why no one has come for me.' At the unemotional manner in which the words were spoken Don shook his head. `It's a dreadful business altogether. You've been told that you'll recover, though, so that's some consolation.! 'The doctors say I'll remember one day, but they give me no hint of when that day is likely to be. I've gathered that it will be at least six months before anything I've lost returns, and even then I'm likely to forget again. This is normal with people who've lost their memories. They have pictures come, but go again.' But eventually the recovery will be complete?' It was really a statement, because he had already learned this from Mary, so she did not bother to reply, and after a small thoughtful silence Don continued, a puzzled frown on his forehead, `It isn't as if you have a total blanketing out of everything, is it?' `No-' She swept a hand to indicate the border. `For example, I know about plants and trees - well, every-thing, really - except myself. When we watch television in the lounge here there's little that's unfamiliar-' She broke off and another deep sigh escaped her. `I just don't know a single thing about my own life or the people with whom I came into contact. I have no idea at all what sort of a home I had.' Automatically she looked down at her hands. They were pretty, and smooth, with long tapering fingers. But when first she had been interested enough to notice them about ten days after the accident - they were rough and there were little brown scars on them, like bums. She felt she must have been engaged in very hard work of some sort. `I'm so sorry for you, Mary,' Don was saying with genuine concern. `I try sometimes to imagine just what you're going through, and find it quite impossible.' She nodded, her mouth a little grim. `It's so very strange. I have an almost

complete blank until I think of the hospital and the doctors and nurses. Do you know, I didn't even recognize myself when first I was given a mirror. And as for my having a husband- I know I've been married, because here is proof. But what he does for a living, or what his name is-' Again she broke off. `What's the use of talking like this? I feel that even to think is a waste of time. I'd do anything to get out of here,' she added, disgressing as her eye caught sight of the big-bosomed matron whose brother was one of the doctors in the hospital. `I dislike intensely that woman. But yet I suppose I was most fortunate to have found myself in this particular hospital. It's exceptionally well equipped.' `Yes indeed. It's also very comfortable. You have a private ward, you say?' `Yes; I heard the doctor saying I must be given the best possible surroundings, because I was becoming so de-pressed I felt I didn't want to live.' `I can understand, Mary.' He looked compassionately at her, taking in the pale but beautiful features, the shadowed eyes, large and widely-spaced, the full and generous mouth, quivering now as if words hovered but just would not come. `I wish I could do something to help.' She smiled at him. `You've no idea how much you have helped, Don. It's been marvellous, having someone to talk to. I'm going to miss you terribly when you go at the end of the week.' `I'd like to offer something more practical in the way of help. But I can't take you out of here; they wouldn't allow anyone but your husband - or some other relative - to take you out.' `I know.' Her voice caught. `Why doesn't my husband come for me? He can't be looking, that's plain. Perhaps we didn't get along together,' she added dejectedly. `I'm very sure you could get along with anyone.' But Don was disturbed; Mary saw this quite plainly. He was of the same opinion as she herself : her husband just did not want her. `You haven't even the trace of an idea

what he's like?' `Oh, yes. Didn't I tell you? This is the one and only thing that does come to me - although I can't bring into focus any distinct features. But I know that he's very tall and dark, and he's slim in build. He's also very goodlooking.! 'How very strange that you should know this much. Have you told the doctors?' `Yes; everyone here knows what he looks like, so were he to appear they'd realize even before he spoke that he was my husband.' Her hands were gripped tightly together; she was drifting back to that state where she was quite alone, asking herself who she was and from where she had come. She was conscious of the man at her side, but only vaguely so, for her mind was struggling, as she had forced it to struggle on so many occasions, struggling futilely to pick up some faint but tangible gleam that would lead to enlightenment. From where had the vague picture, yet definite impression, of her husband come? - standing-out in the grim void of blackness that was all that existed of her past. She knew her husband was tall very tall - and dark, and slender ... and yet strain as she would no glimpse of the marriage could be recaptured. Did she have white? - with a big reception afterwards, and a honeymoon? `I - I can't st-stand it,' she cried, not for one moment meaning to speak aloud. `It'll drive me mad!’ 'Hush,' said Don soothingly. `You do know that your memory will eventually return. It's only a matter of patience.' `Yes.' She tried to recover her calm. `Yes, I do realize this, but as I've said, the doctors can't give me any idea just how long I'm to be in this present state. It could be a year - two years-' She shuddered. `I think I'm depressed because you're leaving,' she said with a look of apology. `Please don't take any notice of me.' `But I must.' `You're very kind.' `I've known you only a short time, Mary, but I hate the idea of leaving you here.'

Mary's eyes wandered to the woman who was now re-entering the high, arched front door of the hospital. `There's something most distasteful about Matron. I always feel she dislikes me intensely.' `I must admit she snaps at you - quite unnecessarily. After all, she's being paid to do a job of work.' `She told me once that she thinks I ought to be transferred to a nursing home. But you have to pay, and I've no money at all' Don said nothing and once again Mary expressed the wish that she could get away from the hospital. `I'm feel I'm in prison,' she confided. `And I'm sure that if I have to stay here much longer I shall begin to think of running away.' He gave her a startled look. `You mustn't! Where would you go? No, Mary, promise me you'll not ever leave here until someone comes for you.' Tears filled her eyes. `No one will ever come for me,' she quivered with con-viction. `Either I have no one, or if I have they don't want me.' `I wish I could think of something. I even wish I could contrive something that would result in our getting you out of this place ...' His voice trailed away and his eyes widened, then his lashes came down swiftly, masking his expression. A silence ensued before he eventually looked to see if she had noticed. But she was gazing at the door through which Matron had disappeared and her thoughts were becoming hazy anyway. When at length she returned her attention to him he seemed to be a long way off and Mary concluded that he was thinking of the weekend and of his home and family. He had a pretty wife who came to see him every visiting day, and two lovely children, a boy of five and a girl of three. Children ... Had she and her husband any children? wondered Mary, an almost physical pain catching at her heart. Perhaps she had a young baby who needed her. Why, oh, why didn't her husband come for her? `I expect we should be going indoors,' Don was saying, his manner still one of

preoccupation, and several times he sent her a strange glance, she noticed. `Your husband's very tall, you say - and very dark?' Mary made no answer, for she was much puzzled both by his manner and by the fact of his mentioning her husband's appearance. He was speaking softly, too, as if to himself. `And handsome ...' Don nodded, and pursed his lips. No sound came, but Mary was almost sure those lips had framed one final word, `yes ...' in a decisive and most satisfied kind of way. She must be imagining things, she chided herself at length. It was her head; it became fuzzy and muddled whenever she put too much pressure on her brain by fiercely and persistently willing it to disclose its secrets. Don left on the Saturday, telling her he would ring her up every day. Convinced that this must inevitably become a chore, she told him not to trouble about her. `You have a busy life, Don, from what you've told me, and you won't be wanting to ring me up every day. After all, I'm no concern of yours.' She paused and smiled and held out her hand. `It's been most pleasant knowing you, and having someone to talk to ...' Her voice trailed away and she swallowed. How she would miss him! `I must escape,' she whispered convulsively, and Don actually gave a start on hearing these words. `Mary,' he said sternly and, she thought, with rather more urgency in his tone than was necessary, `will you make me a solemn promise that you won't run away from here?' `I d-don't know...' `Just think! Where would you go?' Again the urgency in his voice; Mary looked at him with a puzzled expression. `Your husband could come for you any day-' `He won't!’ 'He might - in fact, it's very likely that he will very likely,' and he glanced away, avoiding her eyes altogether. `Promise you'll wait!' Mary stared at his profile, but because she had no wish to cause him anxiety she made the promise asked for. `Thank goodness,' he said - and this time she could

not possibly mistake what was in his tone. It was relief! Just five days later she was called from the communal sitting-room where she had been trying to read a book, closing her ears to the incessant chatter going on around her. `Doctor Crosby wants to see you in his room.' The message was given to her by the young porter who, preceding her from the room, stood aside so that he could close the door when she had passed through. What did the doctor want? she wondered. He was a brooding, taciturn man whom Mary disliked almost as much as she disliked his sister. The woman was also in the room, but it was on the tall dark man standing there that Mary's startled eyes became focused. Her heartbeats increased rapidly as she made her way a little haltingly towards the desk at which the doctor sat. `You sent for me ...?' Her mind was becoming dazed and impatiently she shook her head, endeavouring to regain at least a modicum of clear thought. Her heart--beats were becoming increasingly uncomfortable and she felt quite sick because of the trembling sensation in the pit of her stomach. She was fascinated by the man stand-ing in the middle of the room. Her eyes took in the height of him, the dark handsome features and slender form that appeared to carry tremendous strength without an ounce of excessive weight. His eyes were stern and cold; they looked piercingly into hers. The mouth was as formidable as any mouth could be - stern like his eyes, and implacable. His features were long and lean with a saturnine aspect. He was not English, she thought, looking again into his eyes - eyes that appeared black, although she could not be sure of this since his face was in shadow, his back being towards the window. `Well, Mr. Christou?' The doctor's voice was quiet and curious. Mary was wishing that it had been one of the other doctors who was here, but the one she liked best was on holiday and another was off duty for two days. `Is this your wife?'

The tall Greek nodded, but it suddenly struck Mary that he seemed a little tensed. She herself, very conscious of the three pairs of eyes fixed upon her, made every en-deavour to keep calm. Inwardly, though, her mind was in turmoil. This formidable-looking man her husband? She had known he was tall and slender, that he was dark and had attractive features, but never had she imagined her-self being married to a foreigner. `Yes, this is my wife.' Unemotional tones but hands outstretched. And as if controlled by some mechanical and compelling influence she placed her own hands in them, felt them tighten over hers as the fingers curled, warm and strong. `Mary, my dear, I've managed to find you at last.' Compelled by the same insistent force, Mary smiled up at him; her hands were brought up to his lips and she felt his light, unemotional kiss. `My husband...' So strange, she felt, as if this was not really happening to her but to someone else, while she looked on. She had made no start of surprise at the doctor's question as to whether she was the man's wife; and now she was still devoid of any form of emotion. It was the result of her condition, of course, so she must try to retain her composure and not embarrass her husband by any show of aversion. Not that she knew any strong aversion for him despite his rather grim and repelling appearance, but she could not for one moment imagine herself having fallen in love with so austere and stern a man. He seemed so distant, so devoid of warmth and anything remotely akin to love. She could not even tell whether or not he was glad to see her safe and unimpaired, physically, by her experience. Still, he must want her, for otherwise he wouldn't be here. The doctor was speaking and once again she heard his name. Greek, unmistakably. She knew a sensation of dread at the idea of living with him as his wife, but the next moment she was reminding herself that she must have loved him once. Her love would return automatically ... or would it?

Fear-fully she wondered if she had changed mentally as a result of her accident and loss of memory. If only she could recapture one fleeting glimpse of what had gone before her first meeting with this man, the falling in love, the wedding. But he would be able to tell her all about it, she realized, and her spirits lifted. Would she remember once he had related it all to her? But no; there wasn't a possible chance of this, the doctors having been most emphatic that there would be no restoration of her memory either now or in the very near future. They had told her this at the same time as they had informed her that under no consideration would she be allowed out into the world until her memory was fully restored or, alternatively, until some relative turned up to claim her. And now her husband had come to claim her. She was filled with gratitude and this showed quite plainly in the look she gave him. He was saying quietly, in tones that carried the slightest of accents, `Yes, Mary, your husband,' and, stooping, he kissed her on the cheek. The kiss lacked feeling, but neither did it produce any in Mary herself. It was an impersonal, meaningless action. Her husband might have been a total stranger - in fact he was a total stranger, and in order to love him she must begin all over again. Uneasiness naturally fought side by side with her gratitude and with the uplift of her spirits resulting from the knowledge that she was leaving the hospital, and certain people whom she disliked excessively. Her husband was talking to her and she forced herself to concentrate, soon gathering that she had no other relatives at all. She also learned that he had already explained to the doctor and matron how it was that he had been so long in coming to claim his wife. It seemed that she had been living in Greece with her husband, for he was saying that she had come to England, on her own, to pay a last visit to some friends who were emigrating to New Zealand. She was the world's worst letter writer, so he had not at first become anxious. Mary frowned at this news; she hated to think that she would be so

remiss as to neglect the important matter of writing to her husband. In fact, she failed to understand how she could have al-lowed herself to be separated from him for any length of time. However, she was not given the opportunity of dwelling on this aspect of her character, for her husband was still speaking and she learned that he had eventually writ-ten to her, reminding her that he would like a letter. When none came he did then become anxious and decided to come to England. He found that her friends had left, and there was no trace of his wife. He paused there and seemed almost to be groping for words. Mary looked at him, wishing her mind was more clear, for there was something of a flaw in what he was relating, but on noting the complete acceptance of the story by the doctor and his sister, she put her own vague and inexplicable suspicions down to her condition. The doctor and Matron had of course heard all this before Mary was sent for, but her husband continued to relate it for Mary's benefit. He had become extremely troubled and had embarked on the difficult task of finding her, and eventually he had succeeded. Still disturbed by a story that seemed to lack sincerity, Mary fell to wondering why her husband had made no move to contact the police, a move which anyone would instantly make when looking for a missing person. And for another thing, he had appeared somewhat dilatory in coming over to Eng-land to discover what was wrong. He was watching her, looking down with that inscrutable expression; he seemed to guess at her anxiety, and a smile, produced swiftly, brought an almost unbelievable change in his taut stern features, and her uneasiness melted as rapidly as a snowflake on a warm windowpane. A fluttering smile was offered in response as Mary recalled the warning of one of the doctors. She must, during the next few months, guard against attaching too much importance to trivia. Small things could easily be magnified out of all proportion. She must

keep this in mind during the months ahead, so that she would never misconstrue any action or conduct of her husband. And with this resolve made she dismissed forever the idea that he had not acted as expeditiously as would have been expected. She said a little contritely, `I feel dreadfully guilty at giving you all this trouble,' but he stopped her with a lift of his finger. `My dear Mary, you couldn't help it.' `These friends,' she then said, `what was their name?? 'Rawlins. They will probably write to you once they arrive in New Zealand.' She nodded. `They don't know about my accident, of course?' `Naturally they don't, or they would have instantly got in touch with me.' `I haven't the slightest recollection of anyone of that name.' `You won't have, Mary.' It was the doctor who spoke; he seemed interested only in ending this scene, she thought. `You've been told that your memory's gone completely - at least, regarding your personal life - so it's futile to keep on trying to recall either people or incidents.' He was toying with a pen and a blotter; Mary gained the impression that he was thoroughly bored and desired only to be rid of her and her husband. `Shall I be helped by living in familiar surroundings?' she asked, ignoring both his comments and his boredom. `Your surroundings won't be familiar, dear,' put in her husband, `because, while you've been away, I've moved house.' So calmly he said this - just as if moving house was something one did all the time! `I shall be going to a strange house?' Her spirits sank a little, for she had hoped that, once in her own home, with things around her that she had once lived with, her memory might give her back at least a glimpse or two of what had been taken from her by the accident. `Yes, dear.' A strange pause and then, `We

were moving. You knew about this before you went away.' `I see ...' She looked up into his stern dark features and although she would have liked to question him about the reason for the removal, she refrained. There was some-thing so forbidding about him now, just as if he were silently commanding her to hold her peace until they were away from here ... safely away ... What an odd impression! She told herself impatiently not to keep on imagining things. The doctor presently deigned to speak, answering her question by saying that familiar surroundings would not have made any difference. `It's patience you must have,' and now he spoke sharply, sending a glance at his sister, who was more interested in the two patients walking in the garden out-side than the people in the room. Her gaze remained fixed on the scene outside the window even after the couple had passed from sight. `You don't seem able to accept our verdict,' Doctor Crosby went on, returning his gaze to Mary. `It's the opinion of everyone here that your memory will return in the normal way - that is, you'll begin to have glimpses of the past, but these will most likely be forgotten again. Gradually, however, your memory will be fully restored.' `In how long?' The Greek already knew what the answer would be, as he had heard it before, but it seemed to Mary that he just had to hear it again ... for re-assurance? `I'm imagining things again,' she chided herself. `I do wish my mind would behave!' `Six months at least,' the doctor was answering, and it certainly did seem that the Greek's head inclined slightly in a gesture of satisfaction. `We're pretty sure that it will be at least that time before your wife will be able to re-member anything of the past quite clearly. But it could be considerably longer.' He transferred his gaze to Mary. `I'm sure you will become resigned,' he said, assuming that shortness again now that he was addressing her and not her husband. She made neither comment nor gesture. She

could have told him that she had in fact become resigned already. What she could also have told him was that she had never become resigned to remaining here in the hospital until her memory was restored. As she had mentioned to Don, she had seriously considered running away. How concerned he was about that! He had made her promise not to think about running away, and dwelling on this now she thought. `He might almost have known that my husband would turn up very soon.' How glad she was that, for the present at least, she had kept her promise to Don. `What are you thinking about?' inquired her husband curiously. `You have a most odd expression in your eyes.' She did not know what to say, and she tried to pass off the question by telling him she had been musing on the possibility of her having no one of her own in the world no one who would come to take her away from the hospital. `You see,' she continued, smiling at him, `I'd become rather scared about my situation-' She broke off and another smile fluttered. `And then you came ... my husband. It seems like a miracle.' Again she stopped, for he had turned his head slightly, deliberately avoiding her wide and candid gaze. She gained the impression that he disliked intensely the sound of gratitude in her voice. Why should he act in this most incomprehensible way? Mary experienced some misgivings, but when presently he turned to her once more, that very attractive smile on his face, these misgivings dissolved as if by magic. They were having a meal at the airport, while awaiting their flight, and Mary was plying her husband with questions. He had told her his name was Damos; he had also informed his wife that her name was Rita. 'Rita?' she frowned. `But at the hospital you called me Mary.' He nodded. `Yes, but only because I wanted to get you away with the least possible delay. They were calling you Mary and it seemed simpler to

wait until we were alone for me to tell you that they were wrong.' He was not looking at her and although she stared straight at him, actually willing him to meet that stare, he continued to avoid it. 'Rita Christou ...' she murmured at last. As unreal as everything else. `I like Mary better,' she said and, for some quite absurd and incomprehensible reason, her voice was edged with tears. `I - I d-don't like the sound of Rita at all.' He frowned at her, and became thoughtful. `You'd rather keep to Diary?' he said at length in tones much softer than she had expected on noting his frown. `Yes.' She looked appealing at him. `I know it's silly, but you see, Damos-' She stopped and coloured, biting her lip as the voicing of his name diverted her from what she was saying. It sounded so strange, and it seemed impossible that at one time she had been able to say it with ease. For now she felt inordinately awkward when speaking his name and she had in fact to force herself to do so, aware that she could not avoid its utterance all the time. `You see,' she continued eventually, `I've become used to thinking of myself as Mary - and it is a rather pretty name, don't you think?' He smiled then and something seemed to warm her heart. `Yes, of course I do,' he agreed in gentle tones. `In Greece we use it a great deal. But we say Maria or Maroula or Marita.' `You do?' A small pause and then, `Can I be Mary - just until I get well again?' Damos hesitated, but only momentarily. `With me you can, yes. But my mother knows you as Rita,' he added, an odd inflection in his voice which, when Mary tried to analyse it, sounded almost like bitterness. `Your mother ...' He had already told her a little about his mother - that she was blind and that she had recently had a stroke, but Mary didn't want to know anything more just at present. This one relative - her husband - was sufficient for the time being, and in any case, she wanted to continue

pressing him for information about himself, not his family. `When we're together, then just you and I - you'll call me Mary?' `Yes, dear, if that is preferable to you.' Mary Christou ... She decided she liked both the sound and the combination. Perhaps, she thought hope-fully, her husband would become so used to calling her Mary that he would allow her to adopt the name permanently. `Tell me some more about us,' she begged after a moment. `Tell me everything, please.' Obligingly he began to speak, but much of it was a repetition of what he had told her before, while they were in the taxi on their way to the airport. They had been married only two months when she came to England to visit her friends. This information had amazed her, for she could scarcely believe she could leave her husband so soon after their marriage. Had she not been in love? Surely she would not have married him if this were not the case. Yet how could she bear to be away from him for so long? On mentioning this she was immediately re-minded that her original visit to England was meant to last no more than three weeks at most. `Yes ...' Her mind was hazy again and she bit her lip in vexation. `All the same, Damos, I can't imagine I'd leave my very new husband even for that time. A week, perhaps...' Strangely, he made no comment on this, but instead changed the subject, bringing her attention to the food on her plate - the fish which, though most appetizing, was still untouched. After a while she was questioning him again; he replied spontaneously for the most part, but on one or two occasions he appeared to be searching his mind for a way of replying. It was as if he were actually having difficulty in supplying answers to her queries. But he always did manage eventually. Perhaps, she thought, he was becoming wearied by her persistence, and if this were so she felt she could scarcely blame him. `There is so much to ask you,' she apologized. `You've said that my name before our marriage was Rita Douglas, and

that I worked in an hotel - where we met. But somehow I can't imagine your even looking at anyone like me.' The statement was voiced without any sign of hesitancy or embarrassment on Mary's part. It was a simple truth, for her husband was so grand and superior, so noble and good-looking, that it seemed logical that, she being an employee and he being a guest, they would never find themselves in a situation where the discovery of a mutual attraction could occur. She went on to tell him this, at which he smiled faintly but appeared to be once again mindsearching, and when presently he did speak his words had the essence of being shrouded in mystery. It was almost as if he were making up a story! `You were in the reception desk, so we met quite fre-quently. I was struck with your appearance. You're very beautiful, Mary, and - well, it just happened.' `Yes, but . . .' She tailed off, because he seemed to be greatly amused by her suffusion of colour - colour resulting from his flattery regarding her looks. `How did it begin?' she managed at length, and watched his expression closely, saw that he avoided her eyes even yet again. `I asked you out to dinner.' `And then?' she persisted. `I invited you to accompany me to a concert.' `A concert?' She tried to picture herself sitting beside him, listening to an orchestra. `Yes, Mary, a concert.' `I love music,' she said, diverted and recalling for no apparent reason that she had discovered that she liked good music only when Don had played her a Brahms symphony which he had on his tape recorder. `Of course you do. I expect this mutual interest was one small factor in our getting together.' This reply was more satisfying, she decided. There was something concrete about it. `How long did we know one another before our marriage?' `Not long,' he answered wryly. `You see, I was returning home to Greece - after

completing the business which I've mentioned to you-' `The business which brought you to England in the first place, yes.' He nodded his head. `And so I asked you to marry me,' he continued. `You agreed and came with me to Greece.' She fell silent, toying with the bread roll on her plate, unconsciously breaking it up and making numerous crumbs in the process. It would appear that they had both fallen in love very quickly indeed, yet now she felt nothing for her husband - unless it was a degree of awe, while he himself had evinced not even the smallest measure of affection for her. True, she mentally con-ceded, there had been no occasion for an intimate scene, as since leaving the hospital they had been rushing about shopping for a replacement of the clothes she had left somewhere - she knew not where they were, and never would know until her memory was restored. Damos was not in the least interested; he cheerfully accepted the fact that her wardrobe must be replaced. She reminded him that she had some clothes at her home in Greece, saying she would not have taken them all with her on her visit to England. `You took all that were any good,' was his casual rejoinder. `The rest were given away to a maid who was leaving to get married-' `Given away?' she echoed disbelievingly. `My clothes?' He nodded. `It was on your instructions, of course.' He smiled at her. `You hadn't many when we were married,' he told her quietly. `And as I said, you brought with you to England all that were any good. Maroula was very poor and you generously said she could take everything you were leaving behind.' `I kept all that you had bought me?' `Of course. Those are the ones you have lost.' Another long silence. So many puzzling circumstances; so many vexing questions. She gave a deep sigh and saw her husband frown at her from across the table. `What are you thinking?' he inquired, an odd

inflection in his tone. `So many things, Damos,' she answered helplessly. `I know you've been very patient and tried to make the picture clear, but it isn't clear-' Breaking off, she sent him an apologetic glance from under her long curling lashes. `It's most vague, in fact. For example, I was thinking of my clothes. Surely I wouldn't give everything away?' `I'm afraid you did, my dear. When I went into your room there wasn't even a pair of shoes to be seen.' Her mouth quivered. Another thing the doctors had told her was that she would be a long while before her mind worked with absolute clarity, but although she was resigned to this - having on numerous occasions proved it to be true - she felt that she had never been quite so vague about anything as she was about the things Damos was saying to her. He was watching her again and it was as if he could read her thoughts, because he said, an unfamiliar sternness entering his voice, `You know, don't you, Mary, that it's useless to try to remember anything at all about your past?' `Yes, Damos, I do.' `Then don't trouble yourself about it. Just practise patience; accept what life has to give you at this present time, and enjoy it all.' A small and odd little hesitation and then, `Had I not been able to find you when I did you'd still be in that hospital. Be grateful, Mary, for the fact that I managed to discover your whereabouts.' She nodded, but absently. Through the mist that enveloped her mind ran the thought that he himself seemed not to be grateful, but she instantly recalled her resolve always to remember what the doctor had said: that she must guard against magnifying small, unimportant things. In any case, her husband must be grateful that he had found her; it was not logical that it could be otherwise. `You're right,' she admitted presently. `I must be grateful, and I mustn't trouble myself about anything other than the enjoyment of

being free again.' She looked at him. `You have no idea, Damos, what it felt like, being in that place and knowing I would never be allowed out until someone came for me. I wasn't too worried at first, feeling certain I must have relatives even other than my husband. But when no one came, and whwhen you didn't c-come either . . .' She was unable to continue for a moment, and thought he might say something, but he was strangely frowning to himself, as if at some secret thought. `I made a friend - his name was Don - and I told him I felt like running away. But he made me promise not to, because of course he knew that I'd only find myself in some awful plight.' A rather wan smile trembled on her lips. `He said he wished he could help, and I'm sure he himself would have taken me from the hospital had this been at all possible. He even went as far as to say that he wished he knew how to contrive it so that I could get out. Do you suppose that he meant he would have liked to find someone who would offer me protection?' `Perhaps.' Brief the reply, and curt; Damos's eyes were lowered to the rosy contents of the wineglass he had raised to his mouth. He appeared to be far more interested in the wine than in what his wife had just said to him. Mary's gaze became uncertain; perhaps she should not have mentioned Don to her husband, for he might be of a jealous nature. Another deep sigh escaped her as she dwelt again on the fact that this dark, formidable Greek who was her husband was also a complete stranger. She knew fear as she mused on the demands he would obvi-ously make upon her, and suddenly she said, `Shall we arrive home tonight?' `As we were fortunate enough to get a flight we shall be in Athens this evening. We shall have to stay there until the morning when we can fly home from there.! 'We - we-' She broke off, swallowing hard, at the same time making an endeavour to choose suitable words to reveal what was in

her mind. She failed completely, and as Damos was going on to say more about their journey home she left the matter in abeyance. But she knew she would be quite unable to take up the threads of the old relationship until she knew her husband better. On seeing him there in the doctor's room, and almost instantly realizing who he was, she was so filled with relief and gratitude that she failed to reflect on anything except her rescue, as she liked to term her possible escape from the hospital. Now, however, she was faced with the stark realization that she was a wife in every sense, and that her husband had rights which it was only to be expected he would claim. `Tell me about our house,' she urged, moving to safe ground. `What is it like?' `It's a fairly modern villa - complete with patio and gardens.' She looked speculatively at him, convinced that he was being modest about the house. She was remembering the large amounts of money he had spent on replenishing her wardrobe. Only the very best quality was entertained, and shoes, handbags and other accessories had to match to perfection before Damos was satisfied. `Our other house,' she murmured, `if we were going there I might just remember something . . .' She tailed off, aware of her husband's sudden frown of impatience. `You seem to be forgetting what the doctor told you,' he said almost sharply. `Our other house is no longer im-portant to you. The new one is your home - the only home you are likely to remember for at least six months. It will soon become familiar, part of your new life-' `New life,' she interrupted on impulse. `Yes, that's really what I am starting, isn't it - a new life?' His voice and features became softer. `If you will bring yourself to look at it this way,' he said, `your life will be far happier than if you persist in trying to recall those things which it is quite impossible to recall.' Mary nodded her head. `I really must try,' she promised, and then,

because his severity and impatience had disappeared, she ventured to say, `You're kind to me, Damos, and I'm so grateful to you,' and suddenly a great shyness swept over her as she was so acutely aware that it was a stranger she was ad-dressing. `You're so - so patient - answering my numerous questions,' she added, for a fear entered into her that his impatience might return. Her words were designed to forestall it and, perceiving at once what she was about, Damos smiled faintly in amusement. `I was naturally prepared for questions,' he said. Mary gave him a fluttering smile and would have spoken, but, lifting a hand in an imperative gesture, Damos told her to eat the meat that had been put before her. `There'll be plenty of time for talking later,' he added. `We've done enough for now.' She found herself obeying him, and wondering vaguely whether it was her condition that was responsible for this sensation of meekness, or if it was the firm and masterful attitude her husband had taken. CHAPTER THREE ON their arrival in Athens Damos hired a taxi to take them to the hotel where he had booked two rooms. `You're tired,' he said, examining her face. `Have some-thing light brought to your room and then go to bed.' He went on to remind her of what the doctor had said just before they left the hospital. She must not on any account neglect her rest, of which a great amount was essential for the next few weeks at least. Only too relieved at his having booked separate rooms, Mary was not inclined to argue about going to bed, much as she would have liked to take a look round the capital. Damos came to her room about half an hour after she had entered it, knocking quietly and waiting for her to open the door. `Are you all right?' A hint of anxiety tinged his voice and she found herself wondering if he were afraid she might decide not to go to

bed, but to wander off some-where. It was a strange impression for her to have, but nevertheless it was there. `Yes, thank you, Damos. I've rung for a snack to be brought up, as you said, and when I've eaten it I shall go to bed.' After a small hesitation she said, `Are you going out?' He nodded. `I have friends in Athens, so I'm dropping in to see them for an hour or two.' Her eyes became wistful. She was aware of confused emotions, for on the one hand she wished he would take her with him, but on the other she was scared of meeting these friends of his, friends whom she herself had obviously not already met, since he had said that he had friends in Athens, and not that they had friends. Another thing which deterred her from giving a hint that she would like to accompany him was the very important desire to avoid the risk of an awkward situation when they arrived back at the hotel later that night. After all, Damos had been without her for a long time ... `I'll see you in the morning, then. Good night, Damos.' And impulsively she added, giving him a smile of sweet serenity, `I'm very grateful for my husband, very grateful indeed.' `And I'm grateful for my wife,' was his unhesitating rejoinder, and she knew by his expression that his words were wholly sincere. His house stood on a small plateau high above the lake at Yannina, capital of the province of Epirus in north-western Greece. The setting of mountains and lake and lush green pastures was in itself superb, but an added enchantment was provided by the beautifully-laid out gardens immediately surrounding the villa itself, a stately white villa with wide arches and verandahs, with a shady flower-filled courtyard where, from the centre, rose an ornamental fountain with an aquatic garden at its base. It was to this beautiful home that Damns brought his wife, who stood for a long

moment after getting out of the car, stood in an attitude of breathless wonder while a mist of unreality clouded her mind. What sort of a man had she married? Was he a millionaire? and if so, then how had she come to appeal to so an exalted a personage? Her lovely eyes moved, upwards to her husband's hand-some face, and unconsciously she shook her head in be-wilderment. `I can't believe that I really belong here,' she faltered, unsure of herself and feeling very, very strange. `Is this really my home ... for as long as I live?' Mary had no idea why she had added those last few words, since they weren't at all necessary. But their effect on her husband was almost dramatic. He turned his head away swiftly, but before he did so she was just able to catch his expression. The dark eyes had shadowed in the most incomprehensible and disturbing way; the mouth - usually so sternly set as to appear cold and austere - had actually quivered ... just as if manifesting a deep regret! `Damns,' she quivered, unknowingly putting a trembling hand to her breast, `is - is something wrong?' He faced her then, and a smile transformed his coun-tenance. His manner became gentle and reassuring; it was as if, affected by those words she had spoken, he had betrayed an emotion which he now wished to erase completely from her memory. `Wrong, dear?' with a slight raising of his brows in a gesture of inquiry. `Certainly not.' He flicked a hand. `How do you like our new house?' `It's beautiful,' she breathed, her fears and anxieties lost under his charming manner. 'Er - did I see it before I went away?' He nodded. `Yes, dear. We chose it together.' Suave tone and a direct stare. Mary suddenly felt safe, and content. `Some time, Damns, will you take me to see our old house?' He turned to close the car door. `I think, Mary, that you should wait. You've promised to consider this as a new life. If you

want to please me you'll do just that. Some day,' he added as if it were an afterthought, `we might go along and take a look.' `It's far from here?' `Very far,' without much expression. And with that he took her arm and they proceeded towards the wide white steps leading to the front door of the house. But once on the top step she turned around to take a full view of the landscape with the panoramic vista of mountains and lake, of olive-clothed slopes and fields of corn and tobacco. `I'm very happy,' she confided with a sweet and serene smile. And secretly she said, on noting the responding curve of her husband's lips, `All that's required is for me to learn to love you over again. Then everything will be just perfect.! 'Come,' he said, `and meet Theophanes and his daughter, Kyriaki.' `They've come from the other house?' Mary's voice quivered and she held back, watching Damos fitting his key into the lock. `I'm - so afraid,' she added in a whisper. `What will they think when I don't know anything about them?' `They're both newly employed by me,' he returned un-emotionally, his attention with the task in hand. `Our other servants went when we left the house.' `They did?' with a swift and troubled frown. `Is it usual to dismiss one's employees when one moves?' `They didn't want to come so far away from their families,' explained Damos, taking his key from the lock. `The Greek people are always reluctant to move from their own village.' Turning as he spoke, he gestured for her to precede him into the long wide hall, from the far end of which appeared the two servants. `All they know is that you have been visiting friends in England,' said Damos softly in her ear, `so you'll not be subject to any curiosity on their part.' For this Mary was so thankful that she put from her the matter of the previous servants. In any case, her husband's explanation seemed feasible enough, so she couldn't quite see why some faint, intangible anxiety

had troubled her. Both Theo and his daughter were fair-haired and blueeyed, and as every Greek Mary had seen up till now had been dark like her husband, she naturally evinced some surprise. She was later to learn from her husband that Theo and Kyriaki were typical of some Greeks in this part of the country, being descendants of the blond Dorian invaders who had swarmed into this region of Greece in very early times. But meanwhile Mary found herself being shown up to a beautiful room which, adjoining that of Damos, com-manded the same magnificent view across Lake Pambotis to the massif of Mount Mitsikeli, from whose spectacular precipices fell the torrents that fed the lake. `I unpack for you later, Mrs. Damos?' Kyriaki smiled as she spoke, and her blue eyes shone with admiration as she looked her mistress over. `Yes, please.' Mary felt awkward and totally unsure of herself. It seemed impossible that she had once been quite used to servants, that she had spoken to them with the confidence which they would expect from the wife of a man like Damos. `Very good, Mrs. Damos. If you want me there is the bell which you press-' She stopped and gestured apologetically. `I think you would know about the bell - but Mr. Damos he say that you have not been in this house before?' `That's correct, Kyriaki,' was all Mary intended saying, and with a little bow the Greek girl went quietly from the room. All so new ... the country, the house, the servants. And her husband. Not one thing that could help her memory. All new ... A frown gathered on Mary's brow. Surely there was something strange about the whole situation-Abruptly she cut her thoughts as the doctor's words intruded. `I really must resign myself,' she sighed. `I'm beginning a new life, a new one. This I must accept, and wait with patience for everything else to come back.' Yet she felt so out of her element as to be

uncomfortable. And her nerves were quivering in spite of her deter-mination to remain calm. For confused though her mind was, there persisted the conviction that all was not as it appeared. She supposed that part of the trouble was that, in the hospital, whenever she had tried to picture her life prior to the accident she had for some indefinable reason concluded that it had been far from an easy life, and also that it had not been a happy one. It was of course mere impression, emerging from the enveloping mist within her mind and supported by the condition of her hands, a condition which only sheer hard toil could produce. `I must forget,' she whispered fiercely. `My life must have been this life! It must, so these stupid fancies and imaginings shall be put away, once and for all.' And with this vehement announcement her nerves began to settle and she could gaze around her in silent appreciation of the wealth and good taste that had gone to the making of this beautiful bedroom. This environment was real, so why waste time and thought in vague ideas that should not in fact even be allowed to intrude? Yes, she said again, this environment was real, and so was her husband, the husband of whom she was inordinately proud, since he was superlative in looks and physique. Nothing else mattered - nothing but the new life that was hers ... She stared dreamily at the door between the rooms. She must try now to fall in love with Damos; this was what should be occupying her mind to the exclusion of all else. `I don't think it's going to be all that difficult,' she whis-pered to the closed door. `You're so kind and good - and I do already have some love for you, anyway, because you came and rescued me from that awful place and those people I didn't like.' Walking over to the window, with its pretty curtains billowing inwards as the warm breeze caught them, Mary gazed out to take her fill of the striking scene which once again met her eyes. She knew without doubt that every

morning of her life she would stand here, taking in the beauty of the landscape and the lake with its wooded islands and breathtaking reflections of the snow-capped mountains beyond. `How very fortunate I am! But, Damos, how you came to choose me for your wife I can't conceive, for it's plain that you're far above me.' `Who-?' Having pushed open the door Damos stood there, between the rooms, his eyes flickering around before settling on his wife's face. `I thought I heard you talking to someone, and I knew it couldn't be either. Theo or Kyriaki as they're both out in the vegetable garden.' He looked questioningly at her; she coloured up and managed a deprecating little laugh. `I was talking to myself,' she admitted with a spread of a hand indicating the room behind her. `It's all so beautiful,' she added lamely, half expecting him to show amusement, but his face remained impassive. `You like your room, it seems?' `How could I not like it?' She stopped quite suddenly, for without reason a picture rose up before her, the picture of her husband coming through that door, right into her room ... coming to be with her, to share her bed. Terror seemed to take possession, because all at once her husband seemed as cold and enigmatic as the ice-peaks out there, as austere as the great cloud that had swept over the sun, leaving the landscape grey and forbidding. 'I - I have w-wanted to speak to you,' she blurted out, an urgency in her tones despite her stammering accents. `It's about about us ...' The black eyes became intent. `Yes?' he said, an odd inflection in his voice. Mary glanced from her face to his feet - and she kept her eyes fixed upon them. `I hope you'll forgive me, Damos, but -but-' Breaking off, she remained silent for a space before raising her big, pleading eyes to his. `I'm a stranger to you,' she faltered. `I know that you love me, and I'm very happy because you do, but for my part-' She

stopped to take a deep breath, as if the action might give her strength. `I'm very sorry, Damos, but I don't love you.' Her voice fell to a mere whisper and she hung her head guiltily. That was a dreadful thing to say to her husband, the husband who in his anxiety had gone to England searching for her, and who had spent lavishly on clothes before bringing her back to this fairy-tale like villa with its luxurious fitments and magnificent gardens spilling with flowers and every conceivable variety of ornamental tree and shrub. `I'm very, very sorry,' she murmured when he did not speak. His silence continued and he seemed to be avoiding her gaze. But presently he turned his eyes from the con-templation of the scene outside and, coming a step or two closer to her, he said in soft and soothing tones, `Mary my dear, do you suppose I am completely with-out understanding?' `You mean -- you know just how I feel?' Already a smile of gratitude was fluttering, for her heart was lightened miraculously by his kind and gentle words. `Of course I do. I happen to be part of that life which you've forgotten, and therefore you don't know me at all. This I was resigned to on hearing the story of your lost memory from the doctor at the hospital. I fully appreciate your feelings towards me, so you've no need to trouble yourself about it any more.' Shyly she stepped forward and, gripping his hand, pressed her fingers round it. `You're the kindest man in the whole world,' she declared, almost overcome by her gratitude. `And I'm the luckiest woman.' Damos pulled his hand from hers, but gently. And a deep silence settled on the room. Looking up into his bronzed face, Mary had the extraordinary impression that he frowned inwardly, at some thought that was far from pleasant. Wryly she reminded herself that she must guard against imagining things. At last her husband said, `You're to heed what I've said, and stop troubling your-self about me. Understand?' In his tone there was the revelation of an

imperious will, of mastery and command and even a touch of hardness that warned as well as censured. `Relax your mind, and stop meeting trouble half-way.' She nodded meekly and stepped back. `I'll be good and do as you tell me,' she promised, but added, `It will be trying for you, though, loving me as you do. But I shall soon be in love with you again - I'll make myself fall in-‘ 'There's no need,' he cut in, and she could only stare, because of the sharpness of his tone and because of the heavy frown that darkened his brow, and because of the almost ugly tightening of his mouth. It was almost as if the last thing he wanted was for her his own wife - to be in love with him! `I don't understand,' she whispered convulsively. 'Damos ... is everything all right between us?' Once spoken, the question seemed absurd. Hadn't Damos fetched her home? Hadn't he shown kindness, and complete consideration for her feelings? Mary shook her head, impatient with herself. She was allowing her imagination to run away with her again. `All right?' He was alert now and guarded. `But of course everything is all right between us. It's just that I don't want you upsetting yourself because you're not in love with me. I don't expect you to be, Mary, so please do as I say and stop worrying about it.' She bit her lip. It was a wonder he didn't lose patience with her altogether, she thought. But straightway upon this Mary was vowing to make every effort to fall in love with him, remembering that she had dearly loved him once, loved him enough to want to be his wife. So it should be easy to recapture that love, she told herself. How glad he would be when she eventually came to him and told him that everything was all right now, that they could pick up where they had left off. He was speaking and she cut her thoughts in order to concentrate. He was telling her even yet again not to worry, and, he continued, she must dismiss once and for all any feeling of guilt.

`Believe me,' he added, looking down into her face, `there isn't the slightest need for you to feel guilty.' `How understanding you are,' she breathed, and before he could even suspect her intention she had lifted his hand to her lips and kissed it. Savagely he snatched it away and said angrily, `Don't ever dare do that again!' and the next moment she was staring at the closed door, her eyes filled with tears. To Mary's relief Damos had forgotten the incident when, an hour and a half later, she rather diffidently entered the large airy livingroom where he was comfortably seated on a couch. His book was lowered as she came forward and his black eyes flickered over her slender figure. `You look very smart in that dress,' was his unsmiling comment as he gestured to a chair opposite to him. `Sit down, Mary. Can I get you a drink?' Glancing at his watch as he spoke, he went on to add that dinner would be served in half an hour's time. `What would you like?' Rising from the couch he walked over to the cocktail cabinet. Walked ...? He seemed to glide over the carpet, like Hermes with wings on his feet, she thought. His whole bearing too was godlike, nobility and arrogance displayed in every sinewed line of his body and in the superior set of his shoulders. The light grey worsted suit fitted as if it had grown on him, the white shirt was of superlative quality. Mary, rather dazed suddenly by the magnificence of him, and deeply affected by the strength and magnetism of his personality, felt unaccountably helpless, thoroughly dependent on him. She said without thinking, `What was my favourite drink before?' and then averted her head, murmuring an apology. How very difficult it was to remember his injunctions. `I don't want to get vexed with you, Mary,' he said in stern-edged tones, `but I most certainly shall do if you persist in troubling yourself with the past. You'll please me by adapting yourself to what is happening now.' She nodded and said meekly,

`Yes, Damos, I really will try.' `That's a good girl.' He spoke as if to a child and al-though a slight tinge of resentment rose within her, it soon subsided under the feeling of helplessness which immediately descended on her again. What sort of person had she been before the accident? Had she always shown so little spirit? - or was it her condition that robbed her of strength of character? Musing on these questions for a few seconds she decided that it was quite reasonable that she should feel this utter dependency on her husband, who after all was her only relative in the whole world. Without him she had been totally lost, floating in a void, desperately desiring an anchor but sinking into despair. And then came her husband to claim her, to take her to her home, to extend to her his care and protection. Yes, it was natural that she should experience this sensation of helplessness and dependency on him. It was not possible that it could be otherwise. Damos was pouring her a Martini; she accepted the glass from him and put it to her lips, smiling at him with her eyes. For a long moment his face remained an ex-pressionless mask before the merest slant of a smile touched his lips. `We must go and see my mother tomorrow,' he said at length, resuming his place on the couch. He was thoughtful, and a frown knit his brows. Mary also frowned, thinking of the one or two items of information that had been imparted to her about his mother. She had invariably changed the subject when Damos had brought in this nebulous figure of her mother-in-law. It was as if subconsciously she desired only to push the woman away dispense with her altogether, in fact. But of course she had known that sooner or later she must be prepared to learn about her husband's mother, the woman who knew her as Rita. `I shall feel strange,' was all Mary could find to say, and her husband's frown deepened. `You mustn't show it,' he warned, `not in any way at all.'

Mary looked at him in silence, aware of nerve-flutterings and increased heartbeats. She said, in an attempt to afford herself time to regain her calm, for the very thought of the coming meeting with her mother-in-law seemed to fill her with terror, `She has never seen me.!’ 'I told you she has been blind for several years.' Mary nodded, and sipped her drink. Damos's expression was devoid of emotion, but Mary sensed a deep sadness beneath the impassive exterior. `And a few months ago she had a stroke, you said.! 'That's correct.! 'You thought she wouldn't recover?' `The doctors said she would not recover, but she did.' Mary was suddenly quiescent. Her mother-in-law was so unreal that it was difficult to paint any sort of picture of her at all. She was just a shadowy figure who had emerged from what Damos had told her, which was not very much at all. `From what I can gather,' said Mary thoughtfully at length, `we were married at about the time your mother had this stroke?' Instead of answering immediately Damos lifted his glass and drank deeply, and for a moment the atmosphere in the room seemed charged with electricity. `You are quite right, Mary,' he said at last, lowering his glass and looking across at her. `Our marriage made Mother happy at a time when she herself had decided she had not many days to live.' `Days?' repeated Mary, though why she could not have said. But there surely was something most significant in a marriage so conveniently timed for the bringing of happiness to a woman who believed she was about to die. As Damos made no comment Mary added, mechanically, and quite unnecessarily, `She was wrong, of course, because she still lives.' Damos nodded, but his mouth was tight, and in his throat a nerve throbbed uncontrollably. `But she had a second stroke,' he said,

adding that he had already mentioned this to Mary, who inclined her head, and he continued, `It left her paralysed down the right side.' Mary's eyes clouded. Nebulous though Mrs. Christou was, the fact of her being Damos's mother meant that Mary could not remain completely unaffected by the tragedy. `You did say, though, that her mind is still alert?' `That is so.' A small frowning pause and then, `In a way this is not a good thing, because she becomes so frustrated by the lack of ability to communicate.! 'I don't understand?' `She's practically lost the power of speech.' `Oh, how awful!’ 'It is, Mary-'He gave a sigh and shook his head sadly. `She weeps incessantly because of it. You see, she hears and understands everything that is said to her, but she can't reply.' `Can she write?' Mary leant back as she spoke, aware that her nerves were becoming calmer now. It seemed that, once having entered into this discussion about her mother-in-law, her fears were fast subsiding. `She has the use of her left hand only - and she's blind, remember. She tries hard sometimes, but writing becomes laborious. She very soon loses patience and throws the pencil and paper down.' `She can't speak at all?' `She makes noises - mere blurred sounds that are mean-ingless.' A thoughtful silence followed before Mary said, her nerves beginning to flutter again, `What explanation have you given for my absence from home?' Silence again, with Damos staring into his glass. `Mother doesn't realize that you were away for such a long time,' he told Mary at last, his eyes flickering to hers as she gave a start of surprise. `But how can this be? You've told me that her mind is alert.' Damos was avoiding her eyes again. While not exactly at a loss for words, he seemed to

be having some difficulty in phrasing what he had to say. Mary frowned in puzzlement; her mind was beginning to become hazy, as it so often did, and she decided at length that she was once again imagining things. For why on earth should her husband have difficulty in putting into words what he had to say? He began to speak, slowly at first, and in a softly-modu-lated tone. Mary learned that his mother's second stroke had sent her into a coma that had lasted, on and off, for practically the entire period of Mary's absence. When eventually she did regain control of her mind she naturally wanted to know where her daughter-in-law was. `What did you tell her?' Mary's voice was tinged with anxiety; she had little difficulty in visualizing her husband's dilemma, for he would not want to upset his mother by informing her that his wife was missing. `I told her that you were taking a little holiday.' `But what would you have told her, had you not been able to find me?' `That situation didn't arise,' he said, `so there's no need for us to go into it.' Abrupt his tone, as if he were now unwilling to continue this particular aspect of the case. `Supposing she had come out of her coma sooner?' Mary felt a strange tingle of uneasiness, and put it down to the state of her mind, for it was becoming hazy all at once, and she had difficulty in concentrating. She did wish her mind would clear altogether, for suddenly impressed upon it was the very odd suspicion that her husband was actually making up part of this story! `It was most convenient that you found me just when you did,' she could not help adding when Damos did not immediately reply to her question. He appeared to be keeping a cautious silence, masking a difficult moment while he searched about for a convincing answer. `Indeed it was,' he agreed, and as Mary in her present hazy state of mind forgot all about the question she had asked it so happened that he did not need to find an answer after all.

`I still can't understand how I could leave you so soon after our marriage.' Mary spoke after a lull in the conversation during which Damos had refilled their glasses. Her voice was tinged with distress. `I must have had a peculiar sense of duty to have gone off alone like that.' `I agreed,' he said swiftly, obviously unwilling for her to put such blame on herself. When she still looked at him with troubled eyes he produced a smile to soften the stern austerity of his features. This encouraging manner went some little way to assuaging her sense of guilt, but she did wonder what kind of a person she was to be able to face a separation from her husband so soon after their marriage. `You know, Damos,' she murmured, absorbed by her own thoughts, `I'm beginning to think that I wasn't a nice enough person for a fine man like you.' He gave a small start, recovered at once and actually managed to laugh despite the sadness that was naturally possessing him. `Mary, my dear,' he said, `please try to live in the pre-sent and not in the past. You're still suffering from some mental unbalance - the doctor told me that emphatically, and that I must keep it in mind. So you see, what might seem wrong to you now will take on a completely different aspect once you're yourself again.' His voice, quiet and yet a trifle stern, was strangely soothing also, in a way that brought her relief from those troublesome misgivings and darts of conscience. If Damos was not upset by her action in leaving him then obviously it must have been all right. `To get back to Mother,' he was saying, `she'll probably tell you that your voice has changed, but take no notice-' `My voice?' broke in Mary, looking uncomprehendingly at him. `Why should she say my voice has changed?' Damos rose with a sort of leisurely grace from the couch, and went over to the cocktail cabinet where he topped up his glass. Mary's own glass was almost empty, but for some reason he had forgotten his manners.

`The stroke affected her hearing,' he informed her,, `She'll not recognize your voice when she first hears it. She'll probably express surprise, but I shall explain, so you have no need to bother your head about it in the least.' Mary was silent, finding herself tensed even yet again, and the fine gold hairs on her arms seemed to be standing up. Another queer little stab of misgiving had the effect of speeding up her heartbeats. But through this maze of uneasiness came the reminder of her condition - hadn't her husband only just a moment ago said she was still suffering from mental unbalance? The uneasiness vanished as if by a miracle. Ah, that was better! She really must make a strong endeavour to keep things in perspective. `So really,' she said at last, `your mother won't know me at all, any more than I shall know her?' Turning from the cabinet, Damos looked at her, and shook his head. His manner was suave, calm, and full of confidence. Noticing her glass, he held out his hand for it, coming towards her as he did so, and speaking at the same time. `No, Mary, she won't, because, as I've said, she's blind. However, she'll be glad to know you're back again; this is the important thing. I want her to be content in mind even though she's suffering physically.' `She's been worrying about our happiness?' How these words came out Mary would never know. It was just an idea that occurred to her and was voiced automatically. `About my happiness mainly,' he owned. `Mothers do worry about their sons, you know, and mine's no different from the rest.' `She must have been very glad, then, when we got mar-ried?' `My mar-' He stopped, recovered instantly and began again, `Our marriage made Mother very happy indeed, as I have previously said.' `At a time when she herself had decided she had not many days to live,' murmured Mary, repeating the rest of

what her husband had previously said. And once again she was thinking that there was some-thing most significant in a marriage so conveniently timed for the bringing of happiness to a woman who believed she was about to die. Damos was handing her her drink, and his sudden smile erased all else from her mind. How very handsome and charming he was! His height and noble bearing, his broad straight shoulders and bronzed, clear-cut features ... he was perfection, she thought, marvelling once again at the idea of his choosing her for his wife. `What are you thinking about, child?' he inquired with a hint of amusement in his keen dark eyes. `You might almost be in a trance.' She laughed then, and averted her head a little to hide her sudden flush of colour. `It was nothing important,' she said, taking the glass from him and murmuring a `thank you'. Her husband allowed the matter to drop and within a few moments he and she were facing one another across the dining-table in the lovely saloon where the only lights were those given off by tall red candles in crystal candle-sticks, high and slender and triplebranched. The rest of the evening passed most pleasantly, with an interlude of quiet companionship taking place as they partook of coffee and liqueurs on the patio and watched the ever-changing shapes and textures as the moon rose and its bending shafts of argent light invaded the slumbering landscape. Silence hung over the entire scene of lake and mountain and lowland pasture, silence and solitude and a strange transcending peace that seemed not to be of the earthly kind at all. Thoroughly relaxed, tranquil in mind and body, Mary leant back against the cushions and stared happily at her husband's profile. This all seemed like some miracle ... and England was as distant and unreal as her past. CHAPTER FOUR

As the days passed Mary drifted into a sort of lazy con-tentment. Although bewildered at times by her husband's unfathomable and evasive manner she invariably put the blame on herself. For one thing she was attaching too much importance to it, and for another she was forgetting that he must feel a measure of awkwardness concerning their relationship, since it was so unnatural. He and she had been in love, had lived as lovers in the way a husband and wife would normally live, but now they were only friends. Therefore it was to be expected that his manner would be one of rather cool courtesy towards her. All would be rectified once she was able to approach him, willing to be his wife again. He would then be freed from restraint, able to demonstrate his love in the way he must have demonstrated it prior to the accident that had quite literally created a rift between them - not a sinister, or even unfriendly rift, but a barrier for all that. She was lying in bed, staring through the window; in the distance could just be seen the peaks of part of the Pindus Mountains, still covered with snow. Kyriaki knocked softly and entered with a breakfast tray. Easing herself up so that the tray could be put before her, Mary thanked the maid, then, glancing at the poached eggs, the brown crusty bread and rich creamy butter, she added, `This is just what the doctor ordered.' Her eyes wandered to the girl's face, which registered some alarm. `The doctor, madam? What is wrong? Are you sick?' Mary laughed, shaking her head. `No, Kyriaki. Take no notice of what I said.' But the girl was still troubled and Mary wished she could have taken back her words. `latros ..: murmured Kyriaki, and went swiftly from the room. `Iatros,' repeated Mary. `Now I wonder what that means?' She didn't let it trouble her, however, as she poured herself coffee from a silver-gilt pot, then added rich cream from a matching jug. The china was exquisite, the cutlery of silver. The cloth on the tray had

been hand-embroidered. Mary smiled contentedly, yet, quite unbidden, rose the picture of her hands when first she had become sufficiently interested to examine them. Rough and red, they had been ... Perhaps she had been doing the chores for these friends with whom she had been staying, she thought, then frowned heavily. She was not used to work of that nature; her friends would have known that she was married to a very wealthy man who pro-vided her with servants, so it was most unlikely that they would expect her to work so hard that her hands became like those of a woman engaged continually in housework. With a deep sigh of puzzlement Mary put the matter from her. It was always so unprofitable to allow her mind to dwell on questions she was quite unable to answer. But she did wish her husband would be a little more expans-ive. She tried to ask about her life before the accident; she had subtly inquired about confidences she must have made to him concerning her life before she met him - her childhood, and when and how her parents had died. Always he adopted that stern expression, which was more than a little intimidating, she thought. He seemed too masterful by far at these times, speaking softly, yet a little threateningly, as if he would almost be ready to chastise her should she continue to put these questions to him. Invariably she would end by promising never to mention the past again - but it was only natural that she forgot her promises and a question would escape, bringing down upon her head his displeasure even yet again, She was enjoying her breakfast when Damos himself came through the communicating door without even knocking. She glanced up, a question in her eyes; he stood still, his puzzled glance moving from her face to the tray. 'Kyriaki tells me you want a doctor.' `A-? Oh, dear, she misunderstood me.' Mary looked apologetically at him. `When she brought my breakfast I said it was just what the doctor ordered.' Relieved to see a hint of

amusement appear on his face, she gave a little laugh. `I'm sorry if I caused a stir.' `Not a stir exactly, but for the moment I was rather anxious.' `I'm sorry,' she said again, toying with her bread, for an awkwardness overcome her all at once. It was the first time he had seen her in bed and she was conscious of the fact that the pretty nightgown she wore was very far from providing an adequate covering for her curves. And her husband's eyes were on those curves ... `I'll go and tell Kyriaki that you don't require a doctor after all,' he said and, stepping back, he closed the door. She sat motionless for a long moment, wondering at the total lack of expression in his eyes as he looked at her. No appreciation, no desire ... A strange fear rose within her. Could it be possible that Damos's desire for her had waned as the result of what had happened? `If only I could fall in love with him again,' she whispered on a little note of desperation. `I must try - I must!' Part of the trouble was, though, that he did nothing to help her. There was never a caress, or even an affectionate touch of the hand. He seemed too distant by far, and as time passed the idea that his desire for her might have waned became increasingly troublesome. She often wished she had the courage to ask him outright about his feelings for her, but he was still too much a stranger for this kind of intimate question. They visited his mother regularly. One day she would be crying piteously when they arrived at the hospital; another day she would be smiling serenely, as if peace had come to her, and resignation had become a happy state. The first meeting had gone off so smoothly that Mary was amazed. True, her mother-in-law said something about her voice, said it to Damos, who, by some uncanny means, was able to understand the blurred and distorted words that left the woman's parched and tight-skinned lips. `It's not Rita's voice, Mother, it's your hearing. It's changed, darling, but it is

nothing to worry about.' So tender his voice, and compassionate! Mary stared in disbelief. For so austere he was, so distantly aloof with her, his wife, that it had seemed to Mary that he could never have possessed anything remotely akin to the great degree of tenderness that was at this moment being so unexpectedly revealed to her. Something most pleasant had tingled through Mary's veins, for she was wondering if her husband had in the beginning treated her like this extending such gentleness, and allowing such deep and tender emotion to change the expression in those hard and piercing eyes. Mary had been rather shocked on first seeing her mother-in-law, for the face was sunken and deeply lined, the eyes pale and watery and, of course, totally without expression. But as she became used to her appearance Mary actually looked forward to the visits, mainly because they afforded the woman so much pleasure - pleasure that became evident immediately Mary and her husband entered the private ward which, Mary later learned, was the most expensive in the whole hospital. Flowers were everywhere, flowers that filled the room with sweet exotic perfume. On occasions Mrs. Christou would have notes ready for Mary who, after managing to read the ungainly sprawl where words often ran into one another, would reply verbally, using soft and affectionate tones which would bring a quick smile to her mother-in-law's lips. `You are an angel,' was written on one note which Mary received from the woman's hand a moment after entering the ward. `My son was so long choosing a wife, and I used to worry that he would never marry at all, and so live a lonely life, and a useless one. But then, quite out of the blue, you, Rita, appeared and you married him right away, almost. I was so happy, because if you recall, dear, I was at that time expecting to die within a few days.' Aware that Damos was reading over her shoulder, Mary turned her head to look at him when, at length, she laid the note on the bed. His eyes were expressionless; he glanced

away almost instantly, so if some sort of expression did enter his eyes, Mary was unable to see it. Rita .. . With a kind of fierce intensity Mary tried to grasp some slender thread of memory. Rita ... It was so alien, so completely unacceptable that she knew without any doubt at all that she could never revert to it. It had a ring that grated; Mary felt - absurdly, of course, she told herself - that it had never ever belonged to her. `We - we were married right away ...' Mechanically the words left Mary's lips. She was willing her husband to look at her, and when presently he did, her own gaze interrogated. His only response was a smile of unconcern and with a shrug Mary turned to speak to her mother-in-law. And although she would, later, have liked to question Damos about this hasty marriage of theirs, she decided against it, convinced that she would achieve little more than a curt reminder that she was not to live in the past. On another occasion his mother had written, `Do you like your new house, Rita? I expect you miss all the friends you made? Everyone is a stranger, for Damos tells me he didn't bring the old servants with him. But never mind, you have your dear husband, and I expect the two of you need no one else just yet.' `I love the new house,' replied Mary in obedience to her husband's almost imperative gesture as with a lift of his finger he indicated the first sentence on the paper. `It's very luxurious, with the most magnificent views all around.' Neither Mrs. Christou nor her son made any response to this, so just for something else to say, Mary added that the new house was most convenient to the hospital. At this Mrs. Christou did mumble something which sounded like, `But I too had to move-' She stopped and a deep frown creased her brow. Damos was also frowning, his eyes alert, his whole manner strange and unfathomable. `I was in a hospital close to your other house, and it was you, Damos, who had me moved to this

one.' The words slurred dreadfully and Mary soon became convinced that she had not interpreted their meaning correctly, since it was inconceivable that Damos would move away from a house convenient to the hospital where his mother was, then have her moved to a another hospital close to where he now lived. Such an action would be absurd in the extreme. Damos was still frowning and, as if sensing this, his mother wrote something down. Mary tried to read this, but Damos kept it from her. Whatever Mrs. Christou had written, it was the same as she had just mumbled; this Mary believed, and after a small hesitation she made a gesture with her hand, inviting her husband to pass the notebook to her. Firmly he shook his head, tore off the sheet of paper and put it into his pocket. `It's of no importance,' he said softly but emphatically, and Mary knew that tone. It was familiar by now, and to be respected if she did not want to bring down her husband's displeasure upon her head. Nevertheless, she was very soon to experience rather more than Damos's displeasure; she was to witness his anger for the first time - and vow never to venture so far again ! It was early in the evening after one of their visits to the hospital. They had been sitting on the patio, chatting before dinner, and somehow the conversation veered into a channel where Mary had the opportunity of asking Damos to take her to their old house. `I'd like to see it,' she smiled. `You see, I've no idea at all what it's like, and after all, it's the house to which you first brought me, as a bride.' Her eves were soft and her mood docile; she spoke in gentle persuasive tones, so it was with some surprise that she noted the sharpness that entered her husband's voice. `There's no necessity for you to see it, Mary. Your home now is here.' `Yes - but I would like to see the home I first came to.' It was a reasonable request, she thought, and her surprise increased as a dark frown knit his brow. `You did promise to take

me,' she added, rather in haste, and in the hope of erasing that frown from his brow. `I didn't promise,' he corrected brusquely. `I said that, some day, we might go along and take a look.' `Well, then?' She spoke automatically, not realizing that her two brief words might carry an arrogant sound. But obviously they annoyed her husband, whose eyes narrowed as they swept her face. `Well, then - what?' he inquired haughtily. Mary went red, lowering her eyes. Her husband was a stranger again - a complete stranger whose overbearing manner made her feel small and insignificant, with a desire to remove herself from his, presence at once. But swiftly following on this uncomfortable sensation came anger - slight but there all the same. What right had he to humiliate her? - and for nothing at all that she could see? `My request was not in any way unreasonable,' she asserted rather coldly. `It's the most natural thing in the world that I should want to see the house to which you first brought me ' He looked at her for a moment and then, quite quietly but firmly for all that, he told her to forget all about the other house, as it was in the past. It was the present that should be concerning her now, he reminded her. `You promised,' she repeated stubbornly, scarcely understanding herself why she should so strongly desire to take a look at their old house. `Why did you promise if you didn't mean to keep your word?' His eyes glinted. `I've just said I didn't promise!’ 'You said we'd go - some day-' `It was said automatically. I had no intention of going all that way just to look at the house.' `Then why did you say it?' she demanded, one part of her admitting that she was being extremely childish, while the other part of her remained stubbornly determined to force her husband to take her to the other house. `I expect I said it in order to placate you-' `I didn't need placating! You talk as if I were

in a temper or something.' Damos's eyes opened wide at her tone of voice, and the line of his jaw became taut. For a certainty his temper was being strained to its limit. But Mary seemed to be driven on by some mischievous urge over which she had no control. Her husband, his dark face etched in the most forbidding lines, made no comment - much to her surprise - and so with even greater temerity she added, `I insist on seeing our old home! This reluctance of yours to show me is ridiculous!' She frowned as she spoke, amazed at her behaviour; it was both inexplicable and provocative, and totally out of character. It was hardly important that she see the house to which Damos had brought her as a bride, so why this absurd insistence? Her husband moved slightly and her eyes wandered to him. Tingles of something akin to real fear quivered along her spine. For the dark eyes were glassy, the jawline taut and grim, the hard mouth compressed. With a haste born of the urgent desire to forestall the onslaught that appeared to be coming, she opened her mouth to apologize, but Damos was before her, his wrathful tones scorching one moment and freezing the next. Never had she suspected he could have a temper such as this- a temper made more effective by the very fact that it was manifested not by any violent outburst of anger, but in the more subtle and refined manner of the born aristocrat - with deep-biting shafts and barbs that stung and pierced and left marks that would torment long after they were delivered. Mary squirmed and flinched, and finally, when the opportunity arose, apologized meekly and asked his pardon. `I don't know what came over me,' she faltered, and this was the truth. For the last thing she desired was to cause unpleasantness between Damos and herself. He had been kindness itself to her, and patient, for the most part, when she had asked him numerous questions. True, he had reached the point where he seemed reluctant to continue answering these questions, but this was only because he had decided it was

better that she should cease troubling herself about the past and make the most of the present - which was a perfectly sensible and logical point of view; on this Mary was in full agreement with him. `I'm very sorry, Damos,' she said again, hoping to see a relaxing of his formidable features. But she was disappointed; his face retained its austerity, his eyes their glassy expression. And throughout dinner he never spoke to her, not once. She found to her dismay that tears clouded her eyes and surreptitiously she would lift a finger to remove moisture from her lashes. She felt utterly miserable ... but at this stage it never for one moment dawned on her that the hurt resulted from anything other than the un-pleasantness that existed between them. `Do you mind if I go for a short walk?' she found her-self asking when the meal was over. She had a deep desire to walk in the peace and darkness of the garden where she could try to think clearly and find the reason why it had been so important that she should be taken to the other house. Her husband had crushed the idea once and for all, but Mary still had the tantalizing inclination to visit the home to which he had first brought her. It was a long way off, he had said, but she knew instinctively that it was not the distance which had formed the chief objection to his taking her there. What, then, was the chief objection? `A walk?' he frowned, then shook his head. `It's rather late, and in any case, you don't want to be walking alone in the dark.' `I meant in the garden,' she said, but again her husband shook his head. `You'll overtire yourself.' A rather abrupt silence fell. Mary felt thoroughly dis-appointed, and it showed in her eyes. She knew she ought to have the strength to assert herself, but the memory of Damos's anger was still too acutely alive for her to take any further risks. `Perhaps - perhaps I'd better go to bed, then,' she murmured presently, an unconscious little catch in her voice. He looked at her; she saw his mouth soften

and suddenly her heart lightened. A swift smile fluttered as she waited expectantly but for what she did not know. `Is it really important that you take a walk?' he asked, ignoring her remark about going to bed. `Not important, Damos, but I just felt like being outside - in the peace of the garden' `Peace?' he echoed, puzzled. `I can't explain,' she said. `I expect it's your condition, my dear.' His voice softened, matching the curve of his mouth. `I'll come with you,' he said, and added, `Go and get a coat or wrap. The air can be chilly at this time of the year.' Five minutes later they were in the garden, strolling in the chequered moonlight, the cool evening air laden with the musky pungent smell of carob trees growing on the hillside to the south of the garden. To the east lay the lush plain and the lake, with rising behind it the mountains, silver in the moonlight. The sky above was an endless floating drape of purple velvet, punctured by a million stars whose clear metallic light supplemented the softer, gentler glow of the moon. Stillness and silence lay over the whole magical scene, like the primeval hush that prevailed before the dawn of time. `It's ... beautiful,' whispered Mary, conscious of a strange and disturbing throbbing of her heart. It frightened her a little and instinctively she put up a hand to her breast. The movement caught her husband's eye and he asked her what was wrong. `I felt a queer little flutter in my heart,' she told him naively. `Do you suppose I could have sustained an injury to it when I had the accident?' `The doctor didn't mention any injury to your heart,' he answered, his eyes still fixed on her hand. `What sort of a flutter? Is it painful?' Mary shook her head, but as she pressed her hand closer to her heart she could feel its dull throbbing. `No, it isn't painful.' Suddenly she felt exceedingly foolish, and dropped her hand to her side. `Perhaps I'm a little out of breath,'

she said, and changed the subject. `The swimming-pool, Damos - you use it?' `Later. Spring is not the time for swimming out of doors.' `The pool's heated, though?' `Of course.' They were walking towards it, over rather rough ground. `Be careful along here,' he warned. `I can't imagine why the other people left this path in such a state. I'm having it paved before the summer.' Almost before the words were out he was catching hold of Mary's elbow, saving her from a fall as she trod on an angular piece of rock and would have gone headlong on to the path. `Oh ...!' She gave a little gasp of relief as she fell against him. `I thought I was going!' `It was a near thing. Come, we'll go back and take another path.' His hand was still cupped round her elbow; she felt its warmth through the thin sleeve of her coat. The beating of her heart was wild now, and the blood pulsed through her veins. Her mind, often dulled since the accident, seemed suddenly to become alive, bringing vividly to her consciousness the fact of her hus-band's presence, so close, so vital ... so alarming ... What was happening to her? Was this love? or the beginning of love? If so, she had experienced it before, when first she was attracted by the man who was to become her husband. How strange it was to know she had been in love with Damos, and yet not recall one single incident, not find anything familiar in the sensation that enveloped her at this moment. Damos was looking down at her, a little anxiously, she realized, and without warning a great shyness swept over her. `I'm quite all right,' she murmured, just for something to say, but also because she did not want him to be anxious about her. `You're sure?' He glanced down at her again. `You didn't twist your ankle or anything?' `No, I'm fine.' His hand was removed; she felt its loss. It had been protective, comforting, yet disturbing in that it aroused in her a totally unknown emotion. She wanted to move close to him, to feel his

body in contact with hers, just as she had felt its contact when, seconds ago, she had fallen against him. She wanted the touch of his hands, their caress on her cheeks. Flushing painfully at her thoughts, she was thankful for the darkness as a cloud drifted over the moon, masking its light for a moment or two. The path they now took was between high trees, and it led to the outer perimeter of the grounds. From there a slightly wider path took them towards the low hills, behind which rose the mountains, their peaks gleaming white, and softened by the snow. `How long does the snow remain?' she asked con-versationally after a while. `Until May, or thereabouts.' `So long? I always thought Greece was warm all the time.' `Indeed no. We can have very severe winters here.' He paused a moment, glancing down at her. `You must have read about Greece?' he said, an odd inflection in his voice. `Do you remember reading about it?' Mary shook her head. `I remember nothing at all about myself though, as you say, I must at some time or another have read about Greece.' And about many other things besides, she thought, since nothing was strange except the total blank of her own life prior to the accident. `It will all return some day,' he said soothingly. `For the present you must enjoy your life. I hope you are enjoying it, Mary?' `Very much-' But her voice faltered all at once and she added slowly, `I'm sorry for making you angry, Damos. But thank you for forgetting it so soon.' A rather awkward silence followed. Mary felt convinced that he had swiftly comprehended her reason for inserting the apology. His next words confirmed this. `You were unhappy because of our little quarrel?' It had been more than unhappiness, she recalled; it had been a deep hurt which she had felt. The memory even now brought a little lump to her throat and for a while she was unable to speak. Damos was waiting

patiently, his eyes fixed straight ahead to where a mist, having risen on the foothills, curled between a serrated line of cypresses, blurring the sense of time and space. `I don't ever want to quarrel with you,' she said at last, her low sweet tones appearing to arrest his attention, for he almost stopped to look down into her face. Even in the dim light piercing the foliage of the trees she could detect the strange expression in his eyes. It was as if he had just noticed something about her that he had never seen before. But he was frowning, as if what -he saw was far from pleasing to him. Hurt by this idea, she half turned from him - and instantly sensing this hurt. Damos reached out to take her hand, bringing her round to face him. He had stopped now and she also had to halt, lifting her face to his, her blue eyes wide and appealing, her mouth quivering slightly. `What is it?' he asked gently. `You mustn't worry about the few words we had.' He was troubled, she sensed this, but she also sensed that what troubled him was something far more important that what appeared on the surface. And for no particular reason she was recalling that im-pression she once had that he did not want her to fall in love with him. 'Damos,' she quivered, speaking with a sort of frightened urgency, `you do love me, don't you?' A sound followed her words - the call of a bird of prey, echoing through the moutain solitude weird and lonely. It died away, leaving the atmosphere empty save for the negative quality of silence, a silence that remained unbroken longer than it should. But eventually her question was answered, in a way that brought forth a great sigh of relief, for the tones her husband used were a most soothing reassurance. `But of course, my dear. What a silly question to ask!' CHAPTER FIVE MARY was cutting flowers from the border when on hear-ing footsteps she lifted her head and a smile leapt to her lips. `They're for Mother,' she said as Damos

approached her. `I've chosen all the scented ones.' His eyes smiled as he glanced at the colourful array in the basket. `You've given Mother a great deal of happiness, Mary. But you yourself must have realized this?' She nodded, but deprecatingly. `I've grown to love her,' came the simple reply as she dropped a sweet-smelling narcissus into the basket. `And she loves you.' Damos moved nearer and, stooping, picked up the basket, holding it out when another flower was ready to be put into it. The whole garden was a blaze of exotic colour now, for it was the beginning of May and the heat of the sun was increasing daily. On the mountains the snow was melting, filling the rivulets and hanging valleys, creating torrents and swelling the water in the lake. `That's all.' Mary came from the border and stood beside her husband. `She'll adore these, knowing they're all from our garden.' He smiled at this and said, `For the last few weeks the flowers you've taken have all been from our garden.' Mary flushed adorably, and gave a small laugh, her eyes sparkling with humour. `I'm silly, aren't I?' `Not at all, my dear.' His manner was all indulgence - as it had been since that evening in the moonlight when she had asked him if he loved her. Indulgence ... No trace of anything more than this except perhaps a little amused teasing now and then. Certainly nothing loverlike in his manner towards her; there was no sign that he wanted her to come to him, offering herself as his wife. But Mary made excuses for This attitude, trying to put herself in his place and realizing that the first move must of necessity come from her. Because he was a gentleman he was making no demands which she might happen to resent. Understanding her position, and her state of mind resulting from the loss of memory, he was more than willing to make allowances, to accept that she must inevitably have

regarded him as a stranger when he arrived at the hospital claiming her as his wife. And so he was waiting with infinite patience for her to fall in love with him all over again. Well, she thought, a tender smile curving her lips, she had fallen in love all over again. And although she knew full well she had done it before, she decided it could not possibly have been as wonderful as this. But her problem was how to convey to Damos the fact that she was now ready to take up where they had left off before she went to England. When first she had thought about it, there had seemed no obstacle in the way of her going to her husband and telling him that she loved him and was eager to resume their previous relationship, but now that the actual time had come she experienced extreme embarrassment at the mere thought of approaching him. And all the time she delayed her yearning for him grew until, in the end, she found herself making subtle advances, flirting timidly, but each time he acted far differently from what she would have expected, appearing not to notice, or deliberately moving away from her - to pour drinks or throw wide the curtains, drawing her attention to the beauty of the night. On one occasion, when she went over to him on the sofa and sat close, he rose almost immediately and, stifling a yawn, announced his intention of going to bed - and this at only a quarter to ten! `What are you thinking about? You're in a dream, Mary.' Damos's half amused voice brought her back with a jerk to her surroundings. She glanced from the basket he had in his hand, to his face, finely-etched and proud, with that saturnine aspect which she had at first found so forbidding. `It was nothing important,' she murmured, feeling a dart of conscience at the lie. But how could she tell him the truth? It was starkly borne upon her in this moment just how great was the barrier between them, how aloof and remote from her Damos had become. `Nothing important, eh?' He became

preoccupied for a space. `I hope you weren't trying to recall the past?' Mary shook her head. `It isn't any use.' `None at all,' he agreed firmly, and began to walk towards the house, Mary falling into step beside him. `Mother wants another notebook, remember,' said Damos as they reached the patio. `Did you get one when you were out?' `Yes, Damos. I got her two, as a matter of fact.' `Two . . .' musingly, and Mary's heart caught and tears gathered in her eyes. `She'll use two,' she cried in an anguished tone. `Of course she will!' They were on the steps leading up to the patio; Damos stopped and turned to his wife. `It will not be long,' he said tautly. `I warned you yes-terday.' `She 1-looked fine, Damos - you know she did.' His eyes became almost tender. `How very strange that you have come so easily to love her; he murmured slowly, and Mary wondered whether he really had put a slight stress on the `you' or whether she had merely imagined it. If there was an emphasis on that word then it rather signified that someone else had not been able to love his mother so easily. Someone else ... Who? A frown touched her high clear brow as the question persisted. What did it matter anyway? And she was not at all sure about the emphasis, so why tease herself like this? Determinedly she put the matter aside, but not before another tormenting question had reared its head. Why was Damos so adamant about not taking her to see the other house? Mrs. Christou seemed even brighter than yesterday and immediately after kissing her Mary straightened up and glanced at her husband, a question in her lovely blue eyes. He shook his head; it was as he must at all costs prepare her for the worst ... the inevitable, as he had said only a couple of days ago. Mumbling something, Mrs. Christou put the

bouquet to her face, burying her nose in it. `What did you say, darling?' Damos's voice was infinitely gentle and tender, and his wife looked lovingly at him. But as his eyes were for his mother only he failed to note Mary's expression, though he did catch her smile a moment later, and his mouth curved faintly in response. `Write it down for us, Mother.' The two notebooks were produced from his pocket; he placed one on the table and put the other close to his mother's hand. Lowering the flowers on to the bed, she took the pencil from her son and began to write. The ungainly handling of the pencil was watched with pain both by Damos and Mary. The scrawl went all over the page which was eventually torn from the book and held out. Taking it from her, Damos leant towards Mary so that she also could read it. 'Rita - how sweet of you to take the trouble to gather flowers from your garden when it would be far easier to buy them from a shop. But I think you understand that, this way, they're personal - a gift presented with love and not because it's a duty.' There followed a few more words, but as these were in Greek Mary refrained from asking what they meant, since had her mother-in-law not meant them for her son alone she would have written them in English. But Mary examined her husband's face, for all that, half hoping to glean some information from his expression. She drew a blank, his features being an expressionless mask; the black eyes were equally unreadable. Mrs. Christou was writing again, and this time she waved the paper towards the place from which Mary's voice was coming. `Tell me, dear, are you perfectly happy?' `But of course,' replied Mary in surprise. She glanced questioningly at Damos, who seemed to be unconcerned by his mother's question and, suddenly remembering the box of chocolates which he had bought for his mother and left in the car, he politely excused himself and went from the room, leaving the two women alone for a few minutes.

`You love my son?' wrote Mrs. Christou. `I love him dearly,' was Mary's fervent response, and a swift smile leapt to his mother's lips. She wrote, `I've been silly, I think, for although I was so relieved to see my son settled with a wife, I began to have some vague misgivings, for it did seem that there was a lack of warmth between you and Damos.' `It did?' Mary was still studying the words. `It did?' she repeated, affected by a sudden constriction of nerves. `You - you felt that I did not love Damos?' She was thinking of her willingness to leave him and go to England, alone. `In a way,' Mrs. Christou was writing, and Mary sensed that it was with an apology in her mind. `I can't explain, Rita dear, and it doesn't matter now, because it's evident that you and Damos are very happy together.' Swallowing as she read this, Mary found herself saying - although she could not have explained why, `You thought that I was - was not a very nice girl-' The swift raising of her mother-in-law's hand cut Mary short, and mumbled words of protest were spoken. `Never did I think that,' wrote Mrs. Christou. `You were always charming to me.' Charming ... A cover, decided Mary, rather like the word `fair' that schoolteachers always fell back upon when not wishing to make a child's report look too black. Charming but not affectionate. This was what Mrs. Christou could have said; Mary was convinced of it. Again she swallowed, troubled and pained that she had not been as nice a person then as she was now - or as she sincerely hoped she was now. Mrs. Christou had had the impression that she had not loved Damos... `I must have loved him,' she protested, `for otherwise I would never have married him.' `Of course you wouldn't, Rita dear,' wrote Mrs. Christou. `Don't heed it, but just put it down to an old woman's stupidity.'

`You're not in the least stupid,' flashed Mary indignantly. `No such thing. But,' she added with a return of that troubled note to her voice, `I really don't understand how you could have managed to get the impression that I didn't love Damos.' `Nor I - not now. It's so obvious that you love him, and me also.' The sheet of paper was torn off and given to Mary. She read it and put it on top of the others. Mrs. Christou was holding the flowers against her face again and mumbling something. It was not difficult for Mary to guess that what she said was a repetition of what she had just written `... and me also'. `I feel that you love him,' Mrs. Christou then wrote, after laying down the flowers. `And in any case, there was deep sincerity and truth in your voice- just now when you said you loved him dearly.' Mary took the paper and put it with the others, having been able to read it even as the words were being written upon it. Her mother-in-law was writing again. `Put all these notes away in your handbag, Rita. I don't want Damos to know what I've been discussing with you.' Mary obeyed, closing her handbag just as Damos came through the door. He noticed the action and his eyes flic-kered to his wife's face, but it was much later, when they were back home again and sitting, as usual, on the patio, before dinner, that he inquired. `Did Mother give you something this afternoon?' `Give me something?' Mary was puzzled for an instant, but then glanced down, avoiding his eyes. `No - why should you ask?' He was looking intently at her, she knew, and after a long interlude he said, `I thought I saw you putting something in your handbag?' She looked up, decided her evasion had been rather silly, and quite unnecessary, and so she told him that what he had seen her putting away had been his mother's notes. He frowned at this and asked why she should have wanted to keep them. `We usually drop them in the waste-paper

basket,' he reminded her, his eyes still fixed on her face in a searching and intense scrutiny. 'I - er - didn't think,' she returned lamely, and there was another interlude of silence before he said, very quietly, `May I see the notes, Mary?' `I've thrown them away,' she said, but all too swiftly, she realized on seeing his eyes narrow perceptively. `I see. Well, you can recall what the conversation was about, I presume? What were you discussing?' She was both puzzled and bewildered by his persistence; she wondered why, if he feared something, he had gone off and left them alone. Watching his expression now she was in no doubt that he regretted having left them alone, that he had done so without thinking. What had he to fear? Without warning, a torrent of foreboding assailed her and she could only stare at him, daunted by the grim dominance of his features. To her astonishment he lifted a languid hand and snapped off the patio light, and she now saw him as a mere shadow in the gathering dusk, a dark formidable shape whose eagle-like profile caused an involuntary shudder to pass along her spine. He spoke softly in the dimness, and she actually jumped. In his rich, accented voice there lay an imperious demand. `I asked you what you and Mother were discussing, Mary.' A strange constriction in her throat held back speech for a moment; she swallowed convulsively several times but the blockage remained. However, she did eventually manage to speak, and she also managed to make her voice sound light and unconcerned as she told him that it was nothing important of which she and his mother had talked. `She was asking about our garden, mainly. There was nothing much else. You know how slowly she writes, so there wasn't really any time for us to say much to one another.' Silence prevailed for a space, and then it

seemed that he accepted what she had told him. Nevertheless, he did go on to say that his mother became fanciful at times. `Her mind is not always clear,' he added finally. 'Her mind's clearer than mine,' said Mary, but silently, to herself. For she wanted only to change the subject, so that this feeling of apprehension and foreboding would automatically disappear. And to her relief it did disappear, lost in the more pleasant conversation that took place between Damos and herself over dinner. She had mentioned Dodona, of which she had been reading, and had said she would like to visit it some time. After a small moment of indecision Damos smiled and promised to take her quite soon. `You will?' Her eyes lit up; she was happy at his offer and it was well and truly revealed. Damos seemed to frown slightly, but if this were so his face cleared so swiftly that she was not at all sure that he had in fact frowned. `Thank you, Damos!' She was like an eager child who has been promised a treat, and Damos's lips twitched with amusement. `You sound as if you've never been anywhere before,' he said without thinking. `I don't remember-' She shrugged her shoulders; it was a mere automatic gesture, not one indicative of regret, for she was no longer fretting over her lost memory, and had not been doing so for some time. `And so, you see,' she continued, `this will be a wonderful treat for me!' He nodded understandingly. `I must take you around a bit,' he mused. `I have been very remiss, haven't I?' She was quick to deny this. `You're a busy person,' she said with a smile. `I must not take up the time you normally give to your business affairs.' `Nevertheless, we shall go about a little,' he decided, offering her more wine. She watched silently as the spark-ling contents of her glass grew towards the rim. `I think that we'll make the trip the day after tomorrow.' `Shall we visit Mother before lunch, and then

go on to Dodona?' Damos nodded his head' `That is the best procedure. If we go to Dodona in the morning we shall have to rush it in order to get to the hospital in the afternoon, whereas if we visit Mother before lunch we'll have the rest of the day to ourselves.' To ourselves ... The wording gave her quite dispro-portionate pleasure; her lovely eves, seeking his, revealed this pleasure, as did the smile that fluttered to her lips. `It will be marvellous, our being together. Oh, Damos, you have no idea just how much I'm looking forward to it!' His expression became indulgent; the black eyes were softened by a smile. Mary's breath caught and she won-dered if now was the time to reveal to her husband all that was in her heart. No, not just at this particular moment, she decided ... but if only she could get him outside again, into the gentle atmosphere of the moonlit garden :.. If they could, after strolling for a while, stop in some romantic, flower-scented place ... She had successfully managed to get him into the garden, had guided him subtly to a place she knew would more than suit her purpose but much to her dismay her tongue became tied by embarrassment. So cold-blooded it seemed to turn to him and say, 'Damos, I'm in love with you now, so we can take up where we left off.' Crude, yes, exceptionally so, but where did one discover a more delicate approach? Had she been a poet, she thought, suddenly amused, she could without doubt have found some highly romantic way of approaching her husband. They were standing close to the entrance to a little arbour; friendly trees overhung the path and moonbeams slanted through their branches; the air was vibrant with exotic perfume, intoxicating, sense-stirring. Mary looked up into her husband's face, her lips parted, her eyes dark and yearning. His own eyes seemed fixed all at once; she saw with some

considerable surprise that a nerve, out of control, pulsed in the side of his cheek. The moment was overcharged with some potent quality she could not define. She and Damos seemed close, intimate . . and yet there was an invisible barrier between them; it hung like a sinister mist invading the atmosphere, an impenetrable mist that chilled her so that she actually shivered. `You're cold?' His voice was impassive; he was no longer close, but very, very distant. `Shall we go back?' She shook her head; it was an urgent, desperate gesture. `No - please let's stay out for a while longer?' `If you're sure you're not cold?' Concern in his voice? Mary could not tell, nor were his eyes any more revealing. `I'm not cold.' She moved closer and again her face was uplifted, her quivering mouth a most delectable invitation. Damos's gaze was with her; it took in everything - the delicate contours of her high cheekbones, the faint upward slant of the big blue eyes, the arched brows above them. He saw the attractive hairline and the wide intelligent forehead, the pale golden tresses falling against her neck before flowing out to fall caressingly on to her shoulders. He saw the tender curves of her breasts, the tiny waist and slender hips. Aware of his examining scrutiny, she coloured, but in the most attractive way. His mouth seemed to tighten and he appeared to be swallowing something that had lodged in his throat. `Come, child,' he said abruptly, putting a hand beneath her elbow, `let us walk on again.' Sheer disappointment flowed over her as she fell into step beside him. Were they never going to resume their former relationship? she wondered, tears filming her eyes. That particular moment had been one for kisses, for an embrace, for whispered words of love ... for the natural request of a husband, `Darling, shall we go in now?' Yes, that particular moment had been one for romance, for the breaking down of the barrier

between them. There would never be a more propitious moment, she felt sure. .. and he had allowed it to pass. They strolled on in silence, but it was a companionable silence and gradually Mary's spirits lifted. She must have patience, she decided, making excuses for Damos. He was probably feeling awkward and diffident- She cut her thoughts and had to smile. Damos awkward and diffident? On the contrary, he had a most confident and forceful personality, and she was obliged to accept the fact that, had he wanted her, he would himself have made some advances before now. She gave a deep sigh, but the lift of spirits remained and she was able to make conversation as they walked along. `When shall we be able to use the swimmingpool?' she asked as they approached it, still and shining, its edges bordered by flowers and here and there overhung with trees. `Quite soon now.' He glanced down at her. He seemed guarded as he said, `You remember that you can swim?' She shook her head. `No, but I feel sure I can I sense it - if you know what I mean?' No response, and she asked the question that it was natural for her to ask. `Can I swim, Damos?' There was a fleeting pause before he replied, `You could before, but whether you can now we don't know. You might, owing to the accident, have lost your confidence.' `Can that happen?' she wanted to know, a tiny frown appearing between her eyes. `One never knows what an accident as severe as yours can do-' His grip on her elbow tightened and she was pulled towards him as, owing to the fact of her looking up at him as she walked, she must surely have collided with one of the trees bordering the pool. The action having cut short what he was saying, he did not continue, and Mary had the odd conviction that he was glad of the diversion that had spared him the trouble of finishing what he had begun to say. For Mary, she found all else but his touch unimportant and with another attempt to

bring down the barrier she stopped, sniffing the air and making the excuse that she found the perfume of the flowers so delightful that she wanted to stay in this particular spot for a while. He obligingly waited, dropping his hand to his side. Mary talked and he answered; she was saying meaningless things and she felt sure he knew this. But the effect of her surroundings was upon her, the intense and positive quality of the Eastern night creating a stimulus of desire. She realized with a shock that she needed her husband - his kiss, his embrace, the unhampered physical contact with his hard and sinewed body. She blushed and lowered her head, but immediately told herself that it was far from unnatural that she should experience this deep desire for the fulfilment of her love. Damos was her husband; she loved him dearly, so there was nothing to be ashamed of in desiring him in this way. `Damos . . `Yes, Mary?' 'Damos, I- we-' Abruptly she broke off, but lifted her face and even pressed a little closer to him. `It's a beautiful night,' she added lamely. `Very. But then most Greek nights are beautiful.' He stopped speaking to listen. From the undulating green foothills came the silvery tinkle of goat-bells, mingling with the scraping of cicadas in the nearby olive grove. Exotic perfumes contributed to the magic of mountains and meadow and the glimmering lustre of moonlight groping through a lacy veil of cloud. `I love it here,' she whispered, flirting with him like the amateur she was. `It's so - so romantic.' `Romantic?' sharply and with a swift change of manner to one of alertness. `It's just an ordinary night, Mary - nothing special in it that I can see.' Her heart went dead. She began to walk on, rather quickly, towards the house. What kind of a man had she married? she asked herself miserably. That theirs had been no passionate love affair seemed more than

evident now ... and with this conviction came another thought, the memory of her motherin-law's remark that she had felt that Mary or Rita - had not been in love with her son. And close upon this followed another inexplicable cir-cumstance - that of Damos's refusal to take his wife to see their old home. `It's my condition,' she told herself sternly as she lay, wide awake, between the cool white sheets an hour later. `I imagine things, attach too much importance to trivialities - and that's just what the doctors warned me against. I must keep a guard on such mischievous thoughts. And I must be patient with Damos.' And with this resolve she fell into a restful sleep, her last conscious thought being that, as it was now May, it might not be too long before her memory began to return. CHAPTER SIX THEY took the Arta road, passing through groves of orange and olive before turning to the right, the next part of the journey being a climb characterized by numerous hairpin bends rising to the mountain pass. There was a sweeping view of grandiose heights towering to a clear metallic sky, while on the lower, lusher slopes there nestled tiny villages, sometimes beside fast-flowing streams whose speed and volume was a result of the melting snows above. Mary could almost hear the cadenza of these cascading streams, could almost smell the musky aroma of carob trees on the hillsides. On reaching the top of the pass Damos braked and drew in to the side of the road. `There's a magnificent view from here,' he said with a smile, and assisted Mary from the car. The mountain scenery was breathtaking, the silence and isolation such that it was easy to lose all sense of time and space, and even earthly existence. This was Greece in all its splendour, Greece where prodigal nature had been so lavish with its rocks, so brilliant with its sculpture. Here in the almost entirely mountainous region where eagles haunted the fanged and lonely peaks it was so reminiscent of the primeval that Mary was

carried away, into the realm of eternity, a spirit reincarnated, floating free from earth and body and the invidious web of time. She turned, to glance up at Damos; she saw his face in profile as he gazed, eyes narrowed, into the distance where a deep and ragged gorge had been cut by a mountain stream whose destructive waters had ceased to flow many many aeons ago. Sensing her interest, Damos turned, and his black eyes met the lovely blue ones and smiled. Her heart leapt, then settled, but its beats seemed so loud that she felt he must surely hear them in this deep sur-rounding silence. She coloured, because of his stare and that attractive smile, and because she and he were quite alone isolated for the very first time since her return to Greece, isolated from all other humans, standing here in the high mountains where the only sign of life, other than themselves, was the green of the vegetation the juniper trees below the snowline, the box and holly, and the ever-green oaks such as ilex and Kermes. Away in the distance, other shades of green were discernible - where the upper forests consisted of silver fir and Corsican pine. `How beautiful it is!' she breathed, because she had to speak, into the poignant silence, breaking the spell whose power almost forced from her the words, `Dearest, I love you.' `I knew you'd enjoy this particular view,' he said gently. `That's why I stopped. But come, dear, we must move now.' Dear ... Not my dear, as had become so familiar, and which meant nothing since it could be said to anyone. Dear ... Her smile gave him her thank-you; his eyes flickered, then seemed to harden. She stared. Was he fighting something? The idea had never before emerged, but now that it did she could fit it, without much manipulation, into several little scenes that had been enacted between Damos and herself. Fighting ... She sighed impatiently and told herself not to be fanciful. They drove on over the rest of the pass, and reached Dodona, where Damos pulled up at

the cafeneion. Three swarthy Greeks sat at a table playing cards; they glanced up and smiled a welcome as Damos and Mary sat down at a table set under a glowing pink Judas tree. Damos ordered ouzo, which was brought with a meze. The men were also drinking ouzo and Damos ordered drinks for them. `Ef harist poli!' they said in unison, their eyes sweeping over Mary's slender figure. 'Parakalo,' returned Damos and, anticipating his wife's question, he added for her benefit, and in a low-toned voice, `Yes, it does mean "please", but it also means "don't mention it".' `It does?' She shook her head. `I shall never learn the language,' she said. `You don't try very hard,' he chided. `I shall have to keep to Greek, and then you'll be forced to learn.' She laughed and said, `You wouldn't be so hard on me, surely?' `Hard ..’ in a reflective tone as his eyes held hers. `I expect I could, were it to become necessary,' he added, but so softly that she was convinced he had not meant her to hear. Would he ever be hard with her? she wondered. She had experienced his anger once; she recalled with a frown just how she had been hurt by it. However, there was nothing hard about him as, when they had finished their refreshments, he smilingly inquired if she were ready to move on. The archaeological site of Dodona lay in a sacred valley drained by the headwaters of the River Louros. The ancient Greeks were experts at choosing sites, Damos told his wife as they strolled about, exploring what was left of the sacred sanctuary of Zeus, which was the most ancient oracle in Greece, but was to be eclipsed in importance by that of Delphi, which practised the cult of the sungod Apollo, favoured son of Zeus. `I expect that in this case,' continued Damos, sweeping a hand all around, `the site was chosen, and the importance of the oracle greatly enhanced, by the impressive and magnificent relief of the encircling mountains, and also the frequency of thunderstorms that occur in this

region.' `It's certainly a fantastic place for a site.' They were approaching the theatre which, along with the rest of the remains, had been excavated a hundred years ago from under thirty feet of loess and rubble. `It seems to be cut off from the rest of the world.' `By the mountains, yes.' The sun was on the high limestone massif of Mount Tomaros, which rose against the valley sides. Below its barren crags steep alluvial fans spread into the valley floor, their slopes covered with nut trees. Over the whole scene lay the solitude and silence so characteristic of the sacred citadels of ancient Greece. The crystal atmosphere, the tapestry of colour, the clarity of the light ... all contributed to the transcendental quality of holiness. Here, the heart of ancient Greece seemed to beat still, vibrantly alive to the power of the mighty Zeus whose oracle it was. `Tell me about it, Damos,' requested Mary as they sat down on some fallen masonry, their faces to the theatre which, in excellent condition, had been built into the side of the hill, so that it appeared almost to be part of it. `Tell me about the oracle.' He smiled indulgently, stretching his long legs in front of him. `What is it you want to know?' `Everything. How did the oracle come to be here in the first place?' , 'Ah, I feared you would ask me that,' he returned on a teasing note. `There are several legends regarding it, but the most acceptable is that of the two sacred women who were carried off from Thebes, one to Greece and the other to Libya. The one sent to Greece built a shrine to the god she had served in Egypt who, in Greece, would be Zeus. He gave voice in the rustling of leaves and the sound of metal whips blown by the wind against copper gongs or brass basins. These sounds were then interpreted by priestesses, just as they were at Delphi.' `And people came from all over to consult the oracle?' `Of course. They had great faith in the oracles.'

`How simple the people must have been!' `In some ways they were, yet Greece was a great nation for all that.' `It's sad to think how it's declined, isn't it?' Damos merely shrugged his shoulders. `Most nations have had their periods of greatness. What about your British Empire?' `It's gone, of course.' `These occurrences are what make history.' They chatted on for a while before taking another stroll, finding all that remained of the temple of Zeus, which was merely part of the base, and a few broken Doric columns. They then left the ruins and sauntered towards the hills, finding a tiny stream and walking alongside it for a while, Mary wishing she had the courage to tuck her arm in that of her husband. But, she was immediately asking herself, why didn't he take her arm, or her hand - yes, it would be delightful to walk hand in hand on the banks of this stream where wild irises grew, and the sweet narcissi and anemones. In the distance, under the shadow of the mountain, she could now discern a peasant with a herd of black-faced goats. She thought: till the end of time there would be a lonely shepherd haunting these sacred hillsides, for this was an indelible part of the eternal scene, where the only curtain was that of nightfall, which would never fail to rise to a glorious Grecian dawn. `Even the rocks are symbolic,' she murmured, more to herself than to her companion. `They're as eternal as the universe.' She paused and through the silence rang the echo of a bird-call, shrill against the mountainside. `You feel as if - as if you're not very far from heaven.' Damos stopped and gazed down into her face; it was flushed and healthy. Her hair, like strands of pure gold, gleamed in the sunshine. `You're enchanted with this place, obviously,' he said, his eyes still fixed upon her face. `I want to come again and again, Damos.' `You shall, my dear.' `That's a promise?'

`One which I shall enjoy keeping.' Where was this leading? she wondered, darts of excitement shooting through her body. `Because you'll be with me?' she said provocatively. `Because I'll be with you,' was his solemn rejoinder. Now, surely, was the time to tell him of her love. In-stead she said, with a sort of shy hesitancy, `Can I put my hand in yours, Damos?' Her eyes were bright, her smile sweet and tender. Was there a fleeting moment of hesitation before he said, `But of course, Mary,' or had she imagined it? She preferred to believe that this latter applied as, with undisguised eagerness, she slipped her small hand into his. And so, after all, they strolled hand in hand among the wild irises by the waterside, listening to the murmuring of the stream and the occasional call of a bird from the lonely green-clad hills. The sun was falling rapidly when at last they arrived back at the car, and a myriad tints of flame and orange and gold flashed back from the serrated limestone crags. Leaning back in the car as Damos drove back home across the mountain pass, Mary thought that this must surely be the happiest day of her life - at least, it was the happiest day she could remember. Her wedding day, she supposed, must have been the real peak of her happiness, because it was the realization of a dream, but for the present it had gone and these new experiences were all that mattered. She gave a sigh of contentment and saw the swift turn of her husband's head. `What is it?' Gentle tones but, somehow, edged with regret. `I'm so happy,' she breathed, and gave him a smile. He turned away again, staring at the road ahead, a brooding quality about him about the set of the mouth and the faint sag of the fine square shoulders. `I'm glad you're happy, Mary.' The words came after a long pause; they seemed to carry a sigh. She assumed she was being

fanciful again, but yet there was something in the air that she felt she must attempt to clear. `You, Damos - are you happy? - perfectly happy?' He seemed to give a start. Undoubtedly the question had taken him by surprise. His recovery was swift, however, and he was careful to make his tone sound re-assuring as he said, `But of course I'm happy, Mary.! 'You're glad you found me again?' Her voice quivered with an unconscious note of anxiety despite the firm answer she had just received. `I'm exceedingly glad that I found you,' he averred with feeling, and as she was left in no doubt of the truth of this Mary was perfectly satisfied. It had not struck her that there was anything significant in Damos's omission of the word `again'. And so, all the way home, as she leant back in the luxurious car, and gazed out with appreciative eyes to the splendour of the mountain scenery through which they passed, she dwelt happily on his words. He was exceedingly glad that he had found her. The fact of his tardiness in making a move to resume a natural relationship between them faded into insignificance beside the fact that he was grateful to have her back with him. The sun's rapid descent was almost completed by the time he drew into the long drive and slid to a stop before the imposing front facade of the villa. `Thank you for taking me, Damos,' she said as he opened the front door with his key and gestured with a sweep of his hand for her to precede him into the hall. But she remained on the step, turning her head to take a final glimpse of the mountain landscape in the last dying rays of the sun. The Mitsikeli Mountains, rising almost to six thousand feet, had their jagged summits in the sky, fiery red against the purple backcloth of the approaching night. But even as she watched the fire was being extinguished and the peaks were softened by the violet hues of

twilight falling like a mantle over them. Away to the east the massif of the main Pindus Range was an iridescent tapestry, breathtaking in its splendour. `I too have enjoyed our little outing.' Her husband's voice brought her mind back to what she had just said and she turned with a ready smile upon her lips. `There really is no need for you to thank me.' His tones were soft; they thrilled her - though she knew not why, since tenderness was lacking, as it was in his eyes. She wondered if her own eyes revealed her deep love ... and her longing. `We must go again,' she said rather diffidently, for she still had this sensation of meekness when with Damos, as if, owing to her condition, she was wholly dependent on him - and not merely for her food and shelter, but for protection from the outside world, a world that would be fully opened to her only when her memory was restored. `Most certainly we shall go again,' he agreed, `and quite soon in fact. Haven't I already promised you this?' But it was to transpire that any further outings were to be postponed for the time being, as his mother's condition worsened, as Damos had predicted it would, and this meant that they spent longer periods at her bedside. She wept often, because, with the increasing difficulty in writing, she was becoming almost totally divorced from communication and this, to a woman as highly intelligent as Mrs. Christou, must be heartbreaking, thought Mary who, with gentle perseverance, did manage quite often to decipher the jangle of words when even Damos failed to do so. `Make signs with your hands, darling,' Mary found herself saying one day when, frustrated beyond endurance at her inability to communicate, Mrs. Christou began to sob piteously. Her son looked on, his throat moving spasmodically. He seemed helpless, while Mary felt strong. Subconsciously she was gratified that for once their positions were reversed and that he was now relying on her. `I shall understand you.' `It works,' Damos was saying disbelievingly a

few moments later. `Mother, you have a genius for a daughter!' The long thin hands were outstretched, and open, palms upwards; the fingers moved like wings. The mess-age was clear both to Mary and to Damos. He repeated it softly, while Mary blushed and lowered her head. `And an angel...' His mother nodded, clearly happy that her son had understood so easily. `You're so good to her.' The words, spoken with deep sincerity, came from Damos immediately they had left his mother's room. `So very good to her, and for her.' But there seemed to be a tinge of bitterness in his voice, and as she glanced up at him as he walked beside her along the white corridor Mary saw him shaking his head, as if some memory were causing him trouble. `I'm most grateful to you, Mary,' he went on as they came out into the sunlight of the hospital grounds. `You've done so much to make her last months more bearable.' Last months ... Something painful stuck in Mary's throat; she wondered how she could have come to care so much for her mother-inlaw. At first she had assumed, quite naturally, that what she felt for her was pity, but it had transpired that love had almost immediately sprung from that pity, and a strong bond had grown up between them in spite of the difficulties of communication. Often Mary would wonder just what Mrs. Christou would have told her had she been able to speak. Mary would have had little opportunity of an interlude alone with her, though, as Damos had left them alone on that one occasion only. Never since then had he left them even for a moment. `Is she - is she almost at the end ...?' The question came with great difficulty, for Mary's throat was blocked by pain. `She is, Mary.' So sad the words, so helpless the tone. `I shall miss her, Damos,' she said, her eyes filling up. `It's for the best, Mary, my dear.' He was opening the car door for her; she brushed his arm and chest as she made to enter the car.

The contact was soothing, but she suddenly wanted to weep on his breast. `Damos...' Tears fell now and she fumbled in her coat pocket for a handkerchief. She and Damos were alone on the car park and when she had found the handkerchief he took it from her, tilted her face up and gently dried her eyes and cheeks. He seemed to take a long time over it, as if he wanted nothing more than to gaze into her face, at these close quarters, while the opportunity was there. And when at last he did close his hand over the handkerchief in an automatic movement as if forgetting that it was not his, he bent his head and his lips touched hers. It was as if it were a compulsive act, for almost abruptly he straightened up again and, taking her arm, helped her into the car, closing the door after making sure she was comfortably settled. So attentive he always was, so gentlemanly in every way. Mary was inordinately proud of her husband, and now, with the feel of his lips still on hers, she was contented also, his abrupt withdrawal, not having registered sufficiently for it to trouble her. Damos was in his study and Mary had put on a beach suit with the intention of sunbathing on the lawn, for there had been an unexpected warm spell even though May was not yet quite out. But as she was making her way through a closely-planted part of the garden she caught her foot in a protruding root and fell into the bushes. Unhurt, except for a stab of pain in her shoulder, she picked herself up, chiding herself for her clumsiness. It was only when she had been lying on the lawn for a few minutes that she began really to feel the prick in her shoulder and realized she had managed to pick up a thorn of some sort. As the pain increased she decided to return to the house and see if she could get it out. But, standing before the mirror in her bedroom, she soon admitted that she would never be able to extract it herself; it was in too awkward a place. She would have to get some help ... It was then that there flashed through her

mind that here was a ready-made approach to her husband. But this, she decided, was not the most propitious time, and although she suspected she would suffer extreme pain if she left the thorn where it was, in her flesh, she nevertheless firmly resolved not to enlist Damos's help until later - much later ... When they had both gone to their rooms, in fact. She found, though, when the time did arrive and she was standing in her prettiest nightgown, that it took a great deal of determination not to abandon the idea and go to bed. However, greatly helped in her resolve by the pain in her shoulder, she knocked on the communicating door and waited until it was opened. Damos wore a dark green dressing-gown which he was just fastening with the cord. His eyes held inquiry as they looked into hers; she smiled weakly and apologized for disturbing him. `But I've a splinter of some sort in my shoulder,' she went on. `I fell on some bushes and it must have got in then.' She was filled with embarrassment now that his eyes had begun to wander over her slender body and for one ashamed moment she wished she had put on a dressinggown over the transparent nightgown she wore. `You fell in the bushes,' he repeated, puzzled. `How did you come to do that?' Mary stepped back before answering him; it was an invitation and he automatically followed, entering her room proper. She explained, half-turning finally, so that he could see the vivid red patch round the place where the thorn had entered the flesh. `It's dreadfully inflamed,' he said with a frown. `Why didn't you do something about it before now? You must have been suffering some pain from it.' `I was-' She broke off, loath to lie to him, and yet to tell the truth was unthinkable. `I didn't want to trouble you. I - er - thought it would eventually force its way out.' There was a long moment of silence, silence so pro-found and unfathomable that she was about to turn again when she felt his warm hands on her flesh. The contact was all that she had visualized, and more! She had the

greatest difficulty in suppressing the quiver of ecstasy that could so easily have swept through her. `It's too deeply in for it to force its own way out,' he observed. `You must have fallen heavily.' She made no comment and he added, `I'll have to sterilize a needle and tweezers. I'm afraid you're going to be hurt as I'm getting it out.' Easing away from her as he spoke, he looked into her face. `It doesn't matter, so long as you do manage to get it out.' He went from the room, returning a short time later carrying a first-aid box in addition to a small bowl of boiling water in which were the needle and the tweezers. Mary was soon giving little cries of pain, but eventually the thorn was out, lying on the palm of his hand. She blinked. 'It's half an inch long!' she gasped. `And a nasty brute into the bargain.' He glanced at her with a sort of tender severity. `You silly child; you should have come to me straight away.' Putting it on a china tray on her dressingtable, he bathed the wound with some-thing from a bottle, after which she felt him apply a plaster. He would then have moved from her, but she turned swiftly, so that she remained close to him, her lovely face tilted up to his, her lips moving soundlessly, for the thank-you was in her eyes, eyes that smiled, and invited, revealing her thoughts far more eloquently than words ever could. 'I - I feel much better now,' she told him shakily, waiting rather breathlessly for him to take what she was now ready to give. `It'll hurt for a while, though.' Words - spoken as if from some urgent necessity even while his eyes were devouring her beauty, the gracious yet seductive lines of her body beneath the diaphanous creation of nylon and net and dainty ribbons that were all that went over her shoulders; the alluringly revealed curves of her tender breasts held him, fascinated, for a long moment, and she saw the uncontrolled pulsation of a nerve in his

neck. But it was the dark embers of desire in his eyes that held her. she was filled with a sort of tender elation, assuring herself that she had at last broken through the inexplicable barrier that had been between them. `Mary, I - I ...' He stopped, as if suddenly checked by some intervening thought. `Mary dear, you must be feeling exhausted by the pain you've suffered. Get into bed now-' `I'm not exhausted,' she broke in urgently, pressing close again as he made to move away from her. `I've just said, I feel a great deal better now.' Her smiling eyes implored; her lips almost touched his, for his head was bent while she, quite unconsciously, had risen right up on tiptoe. His cool breath was on her face, but his eyes were unfathomable. However, this mask could not deter her. `Damns,' she murmured, freed all at once from every in-hibition she had known, `I love you. I learned quickly, really,' she owned with a deepening of her smile, `but I didn't know how to tell you, and now I find no difficulty at all’ 'Mary,' he broke in, but she went on, ignoring the interruption, and unaware of the hoarseness in his voice, `I'm quite ready, darling, to take up where we left off . .' The rest faded as she allowed her lips to meet his, and she closed her eyes the more to savour the thrill of his embrace and the delight of surrendering her body to his. But instead of feeling his arms about her she felt herself pushed roughly away, thrust from him as if she were something tainted! She opened her eyes; the width of the room was between them. `You're tired,' he said almost harshly. `Go to bed!' She could only stare, her mind numbed by his treatment of her and by his incredibly distant manner as he stood with his back to the door of his own room, anger in his eyes. His whole attitude was repellant, inviting not an atom of familiarity. He was a million miles from her hard, grim and forbidding.

And yet, by what could only be described as instinct, she spread her hands towards him, her vision blurred by tears. `I d-don't understand,' she faltered, her tones no louder than a whisper. `Is it - is it that you've stopped loving me - that you don't want me as your real wife?' It seemed to Mary, when recalling this scene after. wards, that some secret agony engulfed her husband. His throat moved spasmodically and tiny beads of perspiration stood out on his low dark brow. He was quite plainly searching for words and when eventually he did speak he sounded almost as distressed as she herself. `We've been separated for some months, Mary,' he began, `and we have to readjust - I as well as you-' `You?' she broke in with some surprise. `You too have to readjust?' `Naturally.' `You mean,' she said awkwardly and not without embarrassment, `you've learned to do without me?' The shadow of a smile crossed his features as he nodded his head. `Yes, Mary, I have.' `And so ... you don't want me now?' A soft flush on her cheeks served only to enhance the beauty of her face and with a swift frown her husband turned from her, just as if he had some reason for not wanting to appreciate her beauty. `As I've just said, Mary,' he replied at last, `I've to re-adjust. We shall wait until your memory returns and then all will be made clear to you.' His excuse for not eagerly accepting what she was now willing to give might have sounded weak, were Mary to have been able to think with perfect clarity. But as things were she found herself accepting his decision without going really deeply into it. Nevertheless, she was dreadfully unhappy, and when he added perhaps without thinking, `Meanwhile, try to be happy here. I will give you anything you

want - any-thing,' she could not help saying frantically, `Be happy here? What do you mean. Oh, Damns, please be more explicit with me, I beg of you!' He clenched his fists - for what reason she knew not. It could have been a gesture produced by anger, but judging by the dark brooding expression in his eyes he appeared to be suffering mentally. `When I said be happy here it was just that I meant, be happy for the present---' `And the future?' she cried, sudden terror in her voice. Was Damns thinking of a separation? So many incidents flashed into her consciousness - the anxiety she had known in case his desire for her had waned as a result of the separation, her strange impression that he had not wanted her to fall in love with him. And finally, the conclusion that had he wanted her he himself would have made some advances before now, even though he was determined to be gentlemanly and not rush her. There had not even been a loving embrace, a tender kiss, not one real sign of affection, in fact, during these months they had lived together. `This is my home,' she went on fiercely, her terror causing her to raise her voice. `It's my home,' she repeated, `and I want to stay here for ever!' To her surprise he turned from her, as if unable any longer to meet her agonized stare. His tones had softened miraculously when he spoke, although she was sure she detected an unfathomable edge of bitterness in them. `Mary dear, go to bed now, and have a good rest. It will all appear different in the morning.' `You're being evasive again! I asked you about the future!' Her shoulders shook with uncontrolled sobs and Damns turned swiftly, his underlip caught between his teeth. She watched his shadowed eyes travel over her, coming to rest at last on the wedding ring she wore. A nerve pulsed at the side of his mouth; he seemed almost to be in the depths of despair. And suddenly his unhappiness penetrated, making a deep impression on

her. It was borne upon her that although he had made allowances for her she was now making no such allowances for him. Because she was ready to come to him, she had taken it for granted that he was ready to come to her. It had never for a moment entered her head that he also might have undergone a change as a result of the separation, that his desire for her, denied so long, would have to be reawakened. How selfish she had been! - concerned with her own feelings and desires and giving no thought whatsoever to those of her husband. She said, in a small contrite voice, `I'm sorry, Damos. I've taken too much for granted, I think.' She looked at him through her tears. He was still staring fixedly at her wedding ring. `I'll be good and patient, as you want me to be,' and because he still seemed unable to take his eyes off her ring she added softly, and with a tender note to her voice, `When it was put on my finger I was loved and wanted, wasn't I, Damos?' He nodded and said, `Yes, Mary, when it was placed there you were loved and wanted.' Her eyes were lifted to his, pleadingly. `And I'll be loved and wanted again? Tell me I will, Damos, for I'm so afraid - so very afraid. I have only you, remember, and - and although perhaps it's my condition, I feel so dependent on you. I need you, Damos, to love me and take care of me - always.' He was unable to speak; she knew for sure that he was deeply moved and instinctively she made it easier for him by adding, `Just tell me that I'll be loved and wanted again; and with that I'll be quite satisfied, I promise.' Her manner was tenderly seductive as she took a few steps that brought her closer to him. She was resigned to the fact that that he had no immediate desire for her, but she was desperate for re-assurance about the future. `Tell me, please, Damos!' He hesitated no longer, but said quietly, `Yes, Mary, you'll be loved and wanted again.' But then he changed the subject abruptly,

telling her to go to bed, to forget everything but the need for rest. She went to bed immediately, but she lay with the light on, going over in her mind the scene that had begun with elation on her part and ended with such bitter disappointment. As she examined every word and incident she found her mind in chaos. For although Damos had intimated that he himself felt differently towards her and must readjust - which meant in effect that his desire for her had waned - only a few minutes previously she had been acutely aware of desire burning in his eyes ... Still unable to catch the threads of sleep, Mary got out of bed an hour later, and paced the room. So often she had put down her suspicions to the state of her mind. And she had to admit that it did seem to play her up a great deal, but as she had lain there in the bed, examining every detail of the conversation that had taken place between Damos and herself, she knew that the flaws had nothing to do with her imagination. In any case, one particular incident, eclipsing all others, proved to her beyond any doubt at all that something was seriously amiss. And the particular incident was the fact of her noting the unmistakable evidence of desire in his eyes. It had been the one unguarded moment in the whole scene, a moment which she had caught, and held, and which was vividly alive in her mind at the present time. Damos had wanted her, and yet he had thrust her from him, fighting his desire as if the act of making love to her was some sort of crime which must at all costs be resisted. Yes, there was no longer any doubt in Mary's mind. Something was seriously amiss. CHAPTER SEVEN THE more she dwelt on the situation existing between Damos and herself the greater loomed Mary's uncertainty about her future. And so worked up would she become that she would weep copious tears, hiding herself away in some secluded spot in the garden, so that her husband should not know.

`I'm making a mountain out of a molehill,' she would tell herself one minute in a desperate attempt to throw off her ever-nagging anxiety. `If I were suffering from a physical illness then Damos would naturally have to wait, and a mental disorder is not much different.' But the next moment she would be reflecting on his words about needing to readjust, and in the cold light of day those words would seem like evasion, a fobbing off, as it were. Her thoughts would run on and the desire in his eyes would be there before her again. `He wanted me,' she whispered between her tears. `I know he did. So his behaviour had nothing at all to do with his having to readjust, nor had it anything to do with my illness.' Damos found her once, crying quietly because of her bewilderment, for her mind had been hazy all day. Dejectedly she told herself that she would never be right again; her anxiety increased to gigantic proportions until it pressed down on her like a burden she felt she would never be able to discard. She heard his approach and shrank back hoping he would pass the little nook in which she was partially hidden by the exotic flowers festooning the trellis work and the wall at the side. But he stopped, and she judged by his expression that he had actually come seeking her. He stood silent for a moment, looking at her. She was drying her eyes with one hand and flicking back her hair with the other. It was early evening and the air was clear and cool, yet vibrating with a heady intoxicating flavour, filled as it was with the sweet scent of lemon blossom coming from the extensive perivoli at the rear of the house. The leaves of the olive trees quivered, gleaming like tinsel in the first light of a rising moon, and far away in the outposts of the forest long slender cypresses cut dark wedges into the star-dotted backcloth that was the soft purple drape of an evening sky. `Mary, what is it?' So gentle the tone, and anxious - yet unmistakably holding a tinge of regret. She was unable to speak and after a small hesitation he came forward to where

she sat, on a little wooden seat close to a tree. It seemed that a sigh escaped him as, bending down, he put a warm hand under her chin and tilted her head. `Tell me, my dear?' `It's everything - on top of me,' she cried. `Oh, Damos, I'm so very unhappy!' A frown knit his brow. `Try not to be, Mary,' he said, and then, `What can I do to make you happy? Let me buy you a present.' Her lips quivered; she touched his hand, pressing it to her cheek. `It isn't a present I want, Damos ...' Her voice faded, for she was loath to humble herself in this way. It was bad enough that she had offered herself to her husband and been refused. The humiliation had not immediately hit her, but later, when eventually it did, she had fairly writhed with embarrassment and felt she could never face him again. `You want your memory to return immediately, don't you? You can't be patient, Mary, and that is what's making you so unhappy.' He straightened up, thrusting his hands in his pockets. `The doctors told you it would be at least six months-' `It's the beginning of June,' she interrupted. `I lost my memory in January. I should be getting flashes by now.' This was far from sensible, she knew, but she wanted to note his reaction to the idea that she might begin to see faint images quite soon. `It was February when the doctor told me you would be at least six months before any spark of memory re-turned.' She looked searchingly at him. `I always feel that you don't want me to get my memory back.' His eyes narrowed with censure. `I don't believe you're speaking the truth, Mary,' he said, and she coloured faintly, and put up a hand to her cheek. But she had nothing to say and he continued by impassively telling her that any odd ideas she might get would in any case be the result of her mental condition. She allowed that to pass without comment, mainly be-cause she knew he could - in part at least - be right. `It was February, that's true,' she mused,

reverting to his earlier statement. `So this means that I've at least two months to wait before I can expect even a spark of my past to come to me?' Her voice was flat; she wondered if he were impatient with her repeated grumbles, but to her relief she read nothing more alarming than faint sternness in his expression and she gave a small inaudible sigh. How agitated she became when he portrayed the slightest sign of anger with her. It was the direct result of her utter dependence on him, she knew; he seemed to hold in his hands not only her fate, but her very existence also, and to anger him always constituted some kind of danger, although the nature of this was not anything she could comprehend, much less visualize. `I'm afraid so, Mary,' Damos was saying gently but sternly also. `I do wish you'd try to please me by practising a little patience.' `I will,' she promised, offering him a smile. `I really mean it this time, Damos.' He shrugged and looked wryly at her. `You always say that,' he reminded her, and she nodded her head in agreement. `I expect you get vexed with me,' she said, and there was a rather forlorn edge to her tones. His mouth slanted in a smile. `I endeavour not to, Mary.' Her lovely eyes were raised to his. `But I'm most trying to you at times?' His smile deepened. How attractive he was! She ached for him - for the right to slip into his arms and place her lips on his. He was her husband, and yet that right was denied her. `I expect you want an honest answer?' he was saying with a trace of amusement in his dark eyes. `I'm prepared for it.' She felt better, just a little, be-cause she was with him and because he was kind to her, and patient ... and because he seemed content to be with her, making no move to leave the pretty little nook with its flowers and overhanging foliage and the lovely violet blossoms of the bougainvillea draping the dead trunk of a tree. `I am trying, aren't I?' Across the deep silence his voice came in answer to her question.

`Sometimes, Mary, but I'm not grumbling. Never think that I shall grumble.' `Within you, though,' she persisted, `you're cross with me?' `What exactly is it you want me to say?' he inquired with another brief smile. She realized she was pressing for reassurance that he was not losing all patience with her ... not whole-heartedly regretting ever having bothered about finding her. It was a disloyal thought that such a thing as his regretting having gone to England to find her should have entered her head, but it had, and now she knew a strange compulsion to be reassured. `I want you to say what is the truth, Damos.' In the moonlight she saw his direct, inscrutable gaze - and already she was breathing a deep sigh of relief. How odd that she should feel the weight of anxiety fall so swiftly from her shoulders; it was most puzzling since there really was nothing to be read in his expression. `The truth is, Mary, that I have not the right to be cross with you-‘ 'Oh, but as my husband you have!' `In other circumstances,' he conceded, inclining his head slightly, `but not in these present ones. You've been very ill, Mary - the accident was a most serious one and your brain could have been permanently affected.' `I could have been a cabbage, in other words? The doctors never told me this.' `The doctor I saw told me, though. And so you see, dear, I'm not intending to judge anything you do, or to lose patience with you.' `A cabbage?' Her tones were edged with fear and her husband laughed, speaking before she herself could con-tinue. `But you're not a cabbage, silly child, so stop allowing that brain of yours to produce pictures that don't exist.' `But I can't help it! Damos, supposing you'd been saddled with an imbecile for a wife-' She was stopped, by a little shake as, taking a couple of steps to cover the distance between them, Damos brought her to her feet,

administering the small chastisement. `I said I'd never be cross with you, but I shall, Mary, if you tease yourself with things that have never happened, nor are likely to happen. Snap out of it, do you hear?' The familiar meekness swept over her, but this time she found it rather pleasant. It was thrilling in some indefinable way; she decided it was because her husband's powerful and noble personality was very much to the fore; in the tiny retreat where they stood his height was noticeably dominant, his finely-etched features sternly set, his dark eyes tinged with an admonishing expression. `I'm sorry, Damos,' she said contritely. `It was silly of me to think of such things.' `You'll not do so again?' She shook her head. His hands were still holding her arms and she looked up, right into his face. She wished he would bend his head and kiss her - even if it was nothing more than the kind of kiss he had given her at their first meeting. But he released her and moved one step back-wards. `You want to be going?' she asked flatly. In a few seconds, she thought, she'd be all alone again. `We'll dine out,' he said decisively. `Come and get yourself dressed up.' `Dine out?' breathlessly and with a quivering smile. `You really mean it? Where shall we go?' `Into town. We'll get an excellent meal at the NTO hotel.' Lights flared all over the town; it was the first time Mary had visited it at night and a little thrill of excitement passed through her as, after parking the car on the hotel park, Damos took her arm and led her towards the en-trance. As they came into the restaurant, bouzouki music, sad and plaintive, drifted over to them from the dais on which the musicians were playing. Shaded lights and banks of perfumed flowers added atmosphere to the scene and Mary gave a little sigh of contentment as she and Damos were led by a smiling waiter to a corner partly secluded owing to the tall

climbing plants that were growing in pots at the sides of the table. As they walked the length of the restaurant many heads had turned and feminine eyes had looked admiringly at Damos, then flitted to cast a glance of envy at the girl by his side. Mary herself came in for plenty of attention from the men present and she found herself blushing, for this attention was entirely new to her. Had she been admired prior to her marriage? she wondered. Had she had lots of boyfriends before finally falling in love with the man who was to become her husband? Her heightened colour could not possible go unnoticed by Damos and with a lift of his brows he asked her what was wrong. `Nothing,' she began, and then, on noticing his expression, she knew he would pursue the matter, so she added, rather selfdeprecatingly, `People stare, don't they?' `At you? No wonder, my dear. You're exceptionally beautiful.' It was the first time he had said anything like that and naturally her colour took on a more vivid hue. `You think I'm - er - nice?' she said, avoiding his amused eyes. `I said beautiful, and I meant it.' She said, almost inaudibly, `Thank you, Damos,' and brought a light and humorous laugh from him. It was an extraordinary impression to have, but Mary was sure that Damos was determined to act a part this evening - to enter into some pretence. She looked perplexedly at him, but read nothing from the amusement in his eyes and the attractive slant of his half-smiling mouth. He was in an attractive mood, though, and for her part Mary was determined to make the most of this treat he had so unexpectedly given her. She too would pretend ... pretend that they were lovers, come out for the evening before returning to their home on the hillside and being together, in complete harmony and oneness, as all lovers should be together. `Come, dear,' he said, indicating the menu that had been placed before her, `make your choice.'

But he helped her, recommending the lake fish which, he said, was very excellent indeed. 'Kehli sto kharti,' he said, laughing as she stared in-terrogatingly at him. `Merely baked eel,' he then explained. `Would you like that?' `I'll have it on your recommendation,' she said with a smile. They washed it down with Greek `champagne' which was a sparkling wine from Zitsa, a town built right into the mountainside and which, Damos said, was, according to Byron, the finest site in all Greece, surpassing even that of Delphi, of which Mary had heard and read so much. She had hoped that Damos would take her there some day, but he had not mentioned it, as with the worsening of his mother's condition, they had not liked to go anywhere that would mean missing a visit to the hospital. `I can't eat anything else,' she was saying as Damos asked what she would like to finish off with. `That was lovely!' `Do try one of these Oriental pastries,' he urged, going on to add that they must have more Greek food at home, seeing that Mary liked it so much. `We have too much English food,' he went n. `We'll vary it from now on.' She glanced at the menu again and decided to take Damos's advice as before. She had bougatsa, made with cheese and which she found to be delicious. As it was quite early by the time they had finished the meal Damos drove down to the lakeside where brightly-lit cafes were situated under the massive plane trees. He stopped the car and they got out, to stand by the lake and look across at the twinkling lights of the islands where, in one of its monasteries, the famous Ali Pasha was brutally murdered by his Turkish overlords. The night was balmy and clear; the mountains rose all around. From where they stood, Damos was saying, there was one of the finest views in all Greece to enjoy. Mary nodded enthusiastically. It was a view she had seen many times, but always she had been on her own, and always it had been during the daytime. Now, the scene was

magical, with the beautiful setting of lake and high mountains and the pretty lights from the island and the cafes at the waterside contributing their own special degree of atmosphere. She turned to her husband, so tall and majestic beside her, and because she was inordinately happy, and sure he would not repulse her, she slipped her hand into his. A fleeting moment passed before he curled his fingers around it. She looked up at him and their eyes met, love in hers, for she was incapable of masking her feelings, but not so with him. Whatever his emotions they were inscrutably veiled. But his smile satisfied her; she felt safe, felt that under his protection nothing could ever harm her. They found a seat beneath a plane tree and sat down, Damos retaining her hand in his. She knew he was happy, knew without doubt that he was still pretending ... but pretending what? As the silent moments passed she gained the impression that he was seizing what this lovely and happy evening offered, storing a memory that would be treasured forever. Confused by these impressions, she shirked a deeper analysis by taking refuge in light conversation, drawing Damos into the interesting subject of the history of the lake and its surroundings. Here it was that an ancient kingdom had been founded by Neoptolemus who, having received Andromache as part of his share of the Trojan captives after the fall of Troy, had a son by her who afterwards became the first royal ruler and, therefore, founder of the dynasty. `He became tired of his wife, though,' said Mary. `All these ancient Greeks seem to have tired of their wives.' Her husband laughed. `Are you talking about the father or the son?' he asked, ignoring her last sentence. `The father. He left Andromache after ten years and married Hermione.' `Daughter of the fair Helen. But she was his downfall. He was killed because of her.' " `And so he deserved to be! She was betrothed to some-one else.' He said teasingly, `You appear to feel very strongly about it,'

and when she did not speak, `You've been studying your Greek history, by the sound of it.' `It's dreadfully complicated,' she said with a tiny frown. `You keep getting the gods entering into it.' `But certainly. The gods are a very important part of our history.' She agreed, and the conversation was sustained for another twenty minutes or so before, during a lull, Damos suggested they take a stroll in the old town. `I'd like that,' she said eagerly. `It's much more interesting - to me - than the newer town. I love the Oriental flavour of the narrow alleys coming down to the lake. They fascinate me.' `All Turkish towns are fascinating,' he agreed, rising to his feet and gently pulling her up with him. `You're not too tired?' he queried anxiously, the shadow of a smile appearing at her eager reply that she was not in the least tired. `I could stay out all night,' she added, and, finally, to herself, `with you.' Damos made no comment on this, and in silence they strolled towards one of the narrow streets and entered it. Some of the shops were still lighted, and in one a fairhaired silversmith was busy, his head bent as he carried out some intricate engraving on a beautiful goblet. Yannina was famous for its silverware and Mary had already bought two candlesticks and a tray, all of which had been highly approved by her husband. They had stopped by the window of the shop to watch the man at work; he raised his head and smiled. Mary gave him a swift smile in response, but Damos's attention was arrested by an antique bracelet - in gold, not silver - which lay in view across a pad of purple velvet. `How do you like that?' He pointed to it and Mary gave a little gasp of appreciation. The bracelet was made up of many strands of gold, beautifully twisted, which joined up eight small gold hearts, all of which were intricately engraved, each with the head of a god alternating with the head of a goddess.

She easily recognized Zeus and Apollo, Hera and Athene. `It's perfect,' she breathed. `I love it!' `Then you shall have it,' he said decisively, and tapped on the shop window. `Oh, but - no! I didn't mean that I wanted it. You mustn't think anything like that.' Damos merely tapped on the window again, louder this time, indicating that he desired the door to be opened. The man rose and the next moment they were being invited into the shop. `The bracelet---' Damos flicked a hand in its direction. `I presume it's for sale?' `But of course,' replied the man, in a much more deeply accented voice than that of Damos. `It cost much money, though.' His blue eyes ran over his prospective customer, noting the superlative cut of his suit, the immaculate white shirt, the aristocratic face above it. `But you not mind, I think,' he added after the swift examination. `It is just what right for your lady.' It was carefully - almost reverently - handled by the man before he allowed it to pass to Damos who, even on the briefest inspection, declared it to be something exceptional. `It's a genuine antique?' Mary asked, taking it from her husband as he held it out to her. 'Damos ... it's the loveliest piece of jewellery I've ever seen!' And she had really seen plenty, as she spent hours strolling round the town during the mornings when Damos was busy in his study. And the jewellers' windows had always attracted her, not because of any craving for personal adornment but simply because she loved beautiful things for their own sake. `Yes,' said Damos, `it's a genuine antique, and exquisite into the bargain. I like it very much.' He looked at her, an unfathomable expression in his eyes. `You're going to have it, Mary-' He broke off and she saw with some considerable surprise that he was forced to swallow hard before he could continue. `Keep it always, dear ... and remember this night.' `Remember ...?' What a strange thing to say! How could she ever forget? But his words,

spoken with such deep emotion, were to return to her in the not too distant future, and were to be explained. Meanwhile, she was subtly led from her bewilderment as Damos spoke about the bracelet, pointing out the heads of Artemis, goddess of wild life, and Pan the god of flocks and herds. `He would lead a dance of nymphs,' he added, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes, `playing his pipes for their benefit. Travellers dreaded his appearance and were startled by his music. Hence we have the word "panic" coming down to us.' She stared at him, wide-eyed, the bracelet for the moment forgotten. `Is that where we get the word? I'd never even stopped to think about it.' `Few people do, until someone explains a derivation to them. The origin of words makes an absorbing study.' She agreed, heartily, and asked him to tell her more about the god Pan. `Well,' he continued thoughtfully, `the word "pan" in our language means "all", and eventually Pan became to be regarded as the personification of the whole of nature - which is of course the universe.' He glanced at the shop-keeper, who waited patiently for him to make up his mind about the bracelet. `We'll have it,' he added without further delay, and the man's face beamed as he turned to look at Mary. `You lucky,' he told her. `It a treasure you not find anywhere else in the world! You have much pleasure in wearing it - and it bring you good luck and much happiness!' `Thank you.' She still held it in her hands, with Damos now pointing out the head of Aphrodite, goddess of love, and Hermes, god of fertility. `Pagan gods,' she murmured, and her husband's eyes twinkled again with amusement. `It was a pagan country,' he said. `But you are no pagan.' She spoke to herself, but she wondered if he read her mind because his amusement increased, so that his lips twitched slightly. She said to him, `Am I really going to own this beautiful piece

of jewellery?' She fingered it almost tenderly, but her eyes were raised to his, and he saw the film of moisture slowly appear in their depths. She was too full to say anything else, too emotionally affected even to thank him just at this moment. His lips moved, but soundlessly; he too was having difficulty with his speech, apparently, and with an abrupt movement he was a little way from her, listening to the shopkeeper talking in Greek; Mary assumed he was telling her husband the price. It was much later, when they were back home and standing together on the vine-clothed patio, that she was able to thank him for his gift. He had taken her hand and fastened the bracelet on to her wrist. And then, lifting her hand, he lightly kissed it. She saw his eyes rest for a fleeting second on her wedding ring, and it seemed to her that he frowned; but the next moment she was putting this from her, unwilling to spoil this lovely interlude by the intrusion of thoughts and ideas that were so lacking in harmony with the occasion. Her pretence was not yet ended - nor was his, she thought, for he seemed loath to let her go, late as was the hour. Mystery loomed at last, once she was alone in her room with the very solid barrier of a door between her and the husband she so dearly loved. Mystery ... and the end of the pretence. This was stark reality; she was in her room and Damos in his. And this was the way he wanted it. `But only for the present,' she whispered into her pillow. `Soon, now, whatever it is will be explained, just as he has promised, and we'll be together- Oh, yes, in spite of the uncertainties and the mystery, we'll be together.' And she fell asleep fingering the bracelet he had given her, her last hazy reflection being the words of the jewel-ler as he said, `... it bring you good luck and much happiness!' CHAPTER EIGHT The following morning Mary was on the patio

reading when Kyriaki came to her carrying two glossy magazines which Mary recognized as those bought for her by Damos just before they boarded the aeroplane to come to Greece. They had lain in the bottom of one of her wardrobes, underneath a small fitted suitcase which Damos had also bought her. `I throw these away?' Kyriaki went on to explain that she was giving her mistress's room an extra clean and in the process had taken out the suitcase and discovered the magazine underneath it. `They no good?' `No- Er - yes, Kyriaki. Leave them here, please.' It would be nice to glance through them again, she thought. At the time she hadn't read them anyway, being unable to concentrate on anything except the exciting fact that her husband had turned up to claim her at last. `Very good, Mrs. Damos.' A short while later Mary was stooping to pick up a piece of paper that had fallen out of the magazine which she now had on her knee, idly turning the pages as a preliminary to more purposeful reading. `Don's address!' she exclaimed. `I wondered where this had got to.' Several times she had searched for the small piece of paper on which his address was written, but failing to find it she had assumed it to have been lost even before she left the hospital. How it had come to get between the pages of the magazine was inexplicable but also important. The important thing was that she could now write to Don, telling him of the appearance of her husband on the scene, and what had happened since. `He'll be so glad that I'm all right,' she murmured to herself. `He was so sure, during the last couple of days, that my husband would turn up, and now he'll be de-lighted that his hunch proved to be right.' Damos usually joined Mary for coffee at about eleven o'clock each morning - when she wasn't out shopping, of course - and immediately he came out on to the patio she asked him if he would mind if she wrote to Don. There was a strange silence for a

moment after she had made her request, but on noting her look of surprise Damos immediately said no, he did not mind in the least, whereupon Mary went on to say that she had wanted to write sooner but had lost Don's address, having found it again only this morning, when it had fallen from one of the magazines she was reading. `I've felt awful, not having written to tell him how I've fared,' she went on, beginning to pour the coffee which had been brought by Theo on a tray and put on the table at which she and Damos were sitting. `He was so sure you'd turn up. It was almost as if he had a pre-monition.' Damos said, without much expression, `What are you intending to tell him?' `Everything! He'll be so happy for me, Damos, because although he hadn't known me very long at all he really was genuinely anxious about my welfare, and my future. It'll be so nice to write and tell him about you, and my lovely home, here in Greece-' she spread an appreciative hand towards the magnificent view, `-here among the lovely mountains of Epirus.' The shade of a smile was her husband's only response to this enthusiasm. He was gazing thoughtfully - yet unseeingly, she was sure across the wide velvet lawn to a particularly dazzling stretch of the shrubbery where the showy hibiscus with its brilliant red flowers grew along-side the clusters of pink rose, and white oleanders; while cascading over the wall at the back were the reds and salmons of the vigorous showpiece vine, the bougainvillea. Passion flowers and poinsettias added their particular beauty to the show of exotic colour, colour enhanced by the sun's fierce rays as it shone down from a clear crystal sky. No more was said about Don, and although Mary felt faintly disappointed at her husband's lack of interest in him, she at the same time admitted that there was no particular reason why he should be interested. He was not to know just what the friendship had meant to her, or how she had

been cheered by those conversations with Don, both in the hospital grounds on fine crisp days, or in the lounge when they would sit together, ignoring the television, and the incessant chatter of those patients who believed they could both talk and listen at the same time. With her letter sent off, she looked forward expectantly to his reply. But, meanwhile, Mrs. Christou's condition deteriorated so rapidly that both Mary and Damos remained by her bed throughout the day, taking their lunch and tea in her room, and leaving only when she was ready to be settled down for the night. It was a miracle that she was still alive, the doctor told Damos, going on to say that it was not as if she was fighting to live. `She has had enough and desires only the peace that the unawakening sleep can bring.' Mary had winced at these words, but she was fully aware that Damos was right when he maintained that it would be a blessing when his mother was taken. `She suffers too much,' he told Mary. `She's going through agony now that communication's become impossible.' Mary nodded sadly. Mrs. Christou could not even make signs these days, her hands and arms having become so weak. And Mary suspected that it was because he was so sure that his mother was unable to communicate that, one afternoon, he left Mary alone with her for a few minutes while he went away to make a phone call to one of his managers in Athens. Immediately he had left the room Mrs. Christou managed to sit up and after indicating her need of the writing pad and pencil, was handed them by Mary who, staring in some surprise, watched the pencil scrape over the page and slip off at the edge. But she managed to read, after a great deal of difficulty, `I've been worrying, Rita. Why did you leave your lovely house? Damos was delighted with it when he bought it, some years ago-' There followed a gap and then a long pencil mark where the words, whatever they were meant to be, had trailed away into a thin spidery line

which meant nothing at all. But underneath this Mary read, `Perhaps it was that Preveza is not as pleasant a situation. Damos likes it here, obviously. It was such a surprise-' Another gap and then, `And I in turn had to be moved-' No more. Mary was conscious of tremors running through her, but no specific emotion was aroused. Preveza.... So that was where they had first lived - her husband and herself. It was quite a distance from Yannina quite a distance for Damos to come, especially when he had been so satisfied with the house at Preveza. In addition, he had had to have his mother moved in order that he and his wife could continue visiting her. There must have been some vitally important reason for that move of residence. She reflected on her husband's answer when she had asked him the reason. They both wanted to live near the mountains ... Had she herself really had any say in the move? she began to wonder. Was there something particularly significant in the fact that the removal had taken place during her absence from home? Would any man make a move that necessitated the removal of his dying mother unless the move was unavoidable? These and many other baffling questions flitted through Mary's brain until, overtaxed, it brought down, for its own protection, that curtain of mist and with a feeling of frustration and anger Mary found herself - as she so often found herself - incapable of clear thought. A slight lift of her mother-in-law's hand reminding her that an answer was awaited, Mary said soothingly, marvelling at the cool unconcern in her voice, `You shouldn't have worried, darling. We moved be-cause we wanted the mountain scenery. Preveza, as you know, is on the coast.' What a good thing she had read about her new country since coming back to Greece! 'Damos is so close about the move,' wrote Mrs. Christou. `He always passed it off when I asked him about it, which I often did, at the beginning. You were away, of course, at that time, having your little holiday.' The scrawl

was becoming almost undecipherable and because Mary took so long to make it out her mother-in-law started to cry and flung down the pencil and pad. `I've read it, Mother,' said Mary hastily. `I read it almost right away, but I was thinking,' she lied. A sign of the hand then, and Mary answered the question it asked. `I was thinking about Damos's reticence over the move. I expect he didn't want to bother you with details which, after all, were unimportant. We really did move because we liked it here, among the mountains.' Why had her mother-in-law been so puzzled about the move? - so worried, she had said. Another movement of Mrs. Christou's hand indicated that she was quite satisfied with the explanation given her, and Mary breathed a sigh of relief. The paper on which her mother-in-law had been writing was still in Mary's hand. She stared at it for a long while until, hearing her husband's voice as he spoke to a nurse in the corridor, she slipped it quickly into her hand-bag. Would there ever be an opportunity of her visiting Preveza? she wondered, convinced without a shadow of doubt that Damos would never take her there. `I must be patient,' she told herself, greatly troubled by the faint glimmerings of distrust that were persisting in spite of her loyal efforts to thrust them away. But at the same time she was profoundly conscious of the fact that her mind at the present time was rather more dull than usual and she was sensible enough to acknowledge that her misgivings could be over-exaggerated. `It will all be right in the end - it must be!' She found herself fingering her bracelet, and trying desperately to reassure herself by once again repeating what the jeweller had said, `... it bring you good luck and much happiness!' Don's letter arrived a few days later. As Mary had pre-dicted, he was delighted that her husband had appeared on the scene to claim her. And yet, as she read the letter through

for the third or fourth time, Mary became more and more puzzled by the thread of something incomprehensible that seemed to run through it. She showed it to Damos and said with a frown, `Can you find anything wrong with it?' `Wrong?' He was guarded; his eyes, which had looked swiftly in her direction' as he faced her across the breakfast table, held the most unfathomable expression. Slowly he lowered them to the paper in his hand. `What exactly do you mean, Mary?' Her frown deepened. `I don't know - exactly. He seems - seems - er - guilty ...' She shrugged her shoulders. `I can't explain, Damos, but there's something most peculiar in that letter. I feel I want to read between the lines, as it were, but of course I can't, simply because Don hasn't implied anything.' `Implied?' he echoed, and now he had assumed a manner of casual inquiry not untinged with amusement. `You're not being very explicit, my dear.' He lowered his eyes once more, and read on, appearing not to expect his wife to speak for the moment. `It seems a quite ordinary letter to me,' he said finally and, folding it, handed it back to her. She took it, stared thoughtfully at it for a space before laying it down beside her plate. `I feel he was - sort of - of tensed up when he wrote it She stopped, struggling with the confusion of her mind as the mist came down, bringing with it the familiar dullness. `Do you know, Damos,' she said at length, `I get the strange impression that Don had great difficulty in answering my letter. I feel instinctively that he was wishing I hadn't written to him at all.' She glanced at Damos, expecting him to comment, but to her surprise he was totally absorbed in helping himself to eggs and bacon from the dish which Theo had placed on a trolley by the table. `It's a most odd impression to have,' she went on, hoping her persistence would at length arouse her husband's interest, for she really did want his opinion, `be-cause he was so concerned about my welfare, as I told you before. He made me promise not to run

away, saying he was sure that my husband would come for me quite soon.' Still no comment and she continued, `If you remember, Damos, I told you that he said he wished he could contrive some way of getting me away from the hospital, which I hated so much. That's proof enough of his con-cern.' `Contrive ...' Not a question; not the least hint of inquiry, in fact. Just a low repetition of one single word that appeared to have caught his attention. `Yes, contrive. But of course that was mere wishful thinking. The hard fact was that I had to remain there either until my memory returned or until some relative came to claim me.' A mere nod of the head was all the reaction she received to this and reluctantly she allowed the matter to drop, once again admitting that there was no reason why Damos should be interested in the man with whom she had made friends at the hospital. Immediately after breakfast they got into the car and drove into Yannina, stopping to do some necessary shopping before going on to the hospital. The doctor met them as they entered, his face grave. He spoke in Greek to Damos who, his mouth moving uncontrollably, nodded now and then but did not speak. At length the doctor turned away, apparently having said all there was to say, and, taking Mary's arm, Damos turned also and soon they were entering his mother's room. Neither of them had spoken, but Mary was prepared, and she steeled herself against becoming emotionally upset in front of the woman who was now quickly reaching the end of her life. It was a mere hour and a half later when she and Damos emerged once again into the sunlit car park. Flowers grew in abundance in the hospital grounds; birds sang and insects murmured contentedly in the bushes. From the taller trees came the familiar whirr of cicadas and from some unseen place there drifted the sound of children's laughter. Life everywhere ... Unable any longer to hold on to her unnatural restraint, Mary stopped abruptly and, putting her face in her hands,

wept uncontrollably into them. Her husband's arm came about her shoulders; he was so silent, though, and suddenly she was ashamed - ashamed and contrite, since a scene such as this must inevitably add to his sorrow. `Forgive m-me, Damos,' she sobbed, endeavouring to remove the tears from her cheeks by brushing a hand across them. `I I'll be all right in a little while.! 'Come, dear,' he urged, `and get into the car.' `I don't want to go home,' she said absurdly. `You don't?' puzzled and inquiringly. `We must go home, Mary,' he added gently, and she nodded her head, once again apologizing. 'Wh-what shall we do when we get there?' `I myself have many things to do,' he reminded her softly, his voice breaking as he spoke. `Things to do for Mother.' This served only to bring forth a renewed flood of tears, but by now Damos had her in the car and was tucking a rug round her legs, for she was shivering from head to foot. She leant back, her mind on the woman that they had left. She was engulfed by a deluge of depression, half wishing she had received those injuries that would have made a cabbage of her, for then she would not be able to think, or to be wrenched apart by the agony of losing the woman she had come to love. More important, she would not have these growing doubts about the man who was beside her, himself weighed down by grief. For she did have doubts, in spite of her very real and determined efforts to throw them off, doubts which she successfully concealed from her husband by a cover of pleasantries when they conversed, or a companionable silence when, in the evening, they would sometimes sit together in the high airy music-room and listen to records, of which Damos had a library of several hundreds. To her surprise he did not after all drive straight home to the villa, but took the car to the lakeside, where he stopped, telling her they would go along to one of the cafes on the waterfront and have some refreshment. Aware that this change of plan was entirely

for her, she opened her mouth to protest, but she instantly closed it again. She had meant what she said when she told Damos that she did not want to go home. For she knew without doubt that she would brood, not only on her loss but on so many other things besides. And in the end she would be fretting over her inability to sort all these things out to her satisfaction and, frustrated almost beyond endurance, she would finally have to own, even yet again, that only with the return of her memory would it all be made clear. Without consulting her Damos ordered milk coffee for her and Turkish for himself. He also ordered candied fruit and nuts which were brought to them on a silver-plated dish, along with long-handled forks with which not only to eat them, but also with which to dip the confections in the glass of water which always accompanied this particular kind of sweetmeat. But neither Damos nor Mary could eat, and the proprietor, watching closely as he flicked imaginary crumbs from nearby tables, approached after a while and asked what was wrong. Damos spoke in Greek, realized what he had done, and, after glancing apologetically at his wife, said in English for her benefit, `We thought we were hungry, but find we aren't. There it nothing wrong with your sweetmeats.' `They are good, yes ! You taste, please.' `You have some in jars?' `In jars - yes.' `Then we'll take two of those- No, we're sorry,' he added swiftly as the man would have interrupted, `we don't wish to eat anything just now.' With a shrug the man departed, reappearing a few minutes later with the two jars, wrapped in paper. `Would you like some more coffee?' Damos asked, and Mary nodded. Anything to delay the return to the house. `Yes, please, Damos.' He gave the order and this was soon brought to them. The cafe proprietor glanced from

one to the other in a puzzled sort of way before he went off to flick his cloth over some more empty tables. `He probably thinks we've had a quarrel,' said Damos casually. `Greeks talk a lot, as you know, and it must seem strange indeed to him that we're not speaking to one another.' Picking up his cup, he drank deeply of the black coffee, then took up a glass of water and had another drink. Water, by the Greeks, was highly valued; they drank it with everything, thought Mary, watching her husband and noting the dark shades of grief in his eyes eyes that met hers in a fleeting glance before his lids came down, masking his expression. But in that glance she was sure she detected something more than grief. It was as if Damos were burned by some other kind of unhappiness - the kind that had nothing at all to do with the loss of his mother. Preveza ... The name burned into Mary's brain; she sought the place on the map, even though she knew full well where it lay. A pleasant town with fine shops and a pretty waterfront. She and Damos had once lived there ... Not really long ago - when they were first married. This opportunity ... but if she went it would be with-out her husband's knowledge. The idea brought her heart jerking into her throat. So timid she was, she thought with a frown. Why hadn't she the courage to tell Damos that she intended going to Preveza? But no; it was unthinkable that she should. His anger was a thing to be avoided at all costs, not aroused. No, certainly not aroused. She had experienced it once only, it was true, but she had vowed never to be so foolish as to provoke her husband again. This fear, born of her total dependence on him, must surely disappear once her memory returned. It was too humiliating by far, reducing her to subjugation almost. It was not that Damos actually set out to subjugate her - far from it. His way was more subtle than that. He would advise her not to swim in the pool on a particular day, as the weather was rather

chilly; he would suggest that she went to bed early on certain occasions, telling her she looked tired; whatever he advised or sug-gested or recommended she meekly accepted, acting ac-cordingly. The root of all this was that she feared his displeasure. She would become steeped in dejection at a sharp word or glance. Never once did it occur to her that this fear might result from a subconscious feeling of insecurity, so used had she become to blaming everything on her condition. Mrs. Christou had been dead just a fortnight when Damos had told Mary that he would have to go into Athens to see his lawyers. The business of going through his mother's affairs, and making arrangements for some of her property to be sold, would take all of two days, so he would have to be away from home for one night. It was then that the idea came to Mary, and she had dwelt on it until finally her mind was made up. `Are you sure,' he was asking anxiously on the morning of his departure, `that you will be all right on your own?' They were having a very early breakfast, as he had to be at the airport for eight o'clock. He was driving himself there and already Theo was bringing the car round to the front of the villa. `Quite sure, Damos. Please don't worry.' Her heart was beating madly and her mouth felt dry. `As I said, I'll go to - to Dodona again.' `You're going today?' She nodded, unable to meet those dark and piercing eyes while a lie was on her lips. `It w-will be a good way to - to pass the time.' If only she wouldn't stammer so! She glanced up, scared that he might be frowning in puzzlement at her confused state. But he was concerned with the time, and his eyes were on the clock. `I suppose I could have taken you with me, had I thought. But I couldn't have spent any time at all with you during the day, so it's better that you stay at home.' He was apologizing; she hurriedly assured him that she would much

rather stay at home than walk about Athens all by herself. `It really doesn't matter,' she went on, adding that two days wasn't a lifetime. He made no comment on this, but glanced at the clock again. 'Theo will get you a taxi to take you to Dodona,' he smiled, passing her the toast. `There'll be lots of tourists there by now, but you'll enjoy it just the same.' `Not as much as I enjoyed it with you,' she just had to say, and a glance of deep affection came her way. `It was a most pleasant trip,' was all he said and, less than ten minutes later, he was saying good-bye to her as they stood by the car. `Be careful,' she said anxiously. `Athens is such a busy place.! 'I'll not get run over,' he returned with a tinge of amusement. Then, stooping, he kissed her lightly on the lips before getting into the car. `You be careful too. Tomorrow, if there's a wind, you mustn't go into the swimmingpool.' `I won't. What time will you be back?' `It'll be very late, so don't wait up for me.' `Very well.' She was tensed up, afraid of what she was about to do. The dryness in her mouth spread to her throat and she swallowed several times. `Good-bye, Damos,' she added as, pressing the starter, he leant back in his seat and prepared to set the car in motion. `Till tomorrow.' `I don't suppose I shall see you tomorrow,' he said. `It will be Wednesday morning before we meet again.' He spoke with an odd inflection, and there was something in his eyes that made her say, `It'll soon pass, Damos.' `Of course, dear.' A lift of his hand, the revving up of the engine, the quiet burr of the tyres on the smooth surface of the path, and he was away. For a moment she stood there, until the car became no more than a faint and even throbbing among the trees round the bend of the drive, and then she turned, hurrying back to the villa. Kyriaki was clearing away the dishes from the breakfast-room; Theo was in

the garden at the rear of the house, weeding between a row of peas. She asked him to ring for the taxi for her while she went to her room to get ready. `So soon, Mrs. Damos?' he asked in surprise. `It is very early, and Dodona is not far.' `I want to get there early - before the crowds,' she said. `Ah...' He nodded approvingly. `So you come back for lunch, yes?' `No. I shall have my lunch out.' `But-‘ 'Ring at once, please, Theo,' and she hurried away, her nerves throbbing, her throat still dry and aching slightly. How much simpler it would be to abandon the whole idea, she thought, and in fact for one undecided moment she almost did abandon it. But she knew instinctively that if she let slip this one opportunity she would very soon regret it. For undoubtedly there was some mystery about their previous home - and she was determined to discover what the mystery was. Once away from the house, Mary leant forward and tapped to attract the taxi-driver's attention. `I have decided to go to Preveza instead,' she told him when he had slowed down a little. `Preveza.!' he ejaculated, drawing in to the side of the road and applying his brakes. `You mean - Preveza?' `That's right.' `It is one hundred and thirty kilometres!' `Yes, I know. But you have an excellent road all the way, I believe.' `It winding-' `Only at the start. In any case, even the winding roads are modern.' A great shrug of his shoulders and then, `It cost you a lot of money.' `I understand that. I shall want you for the whole day.' `You want me to bring you back?' `Yes - and to drive me about while I'm there.' `Very good, madam,' he said, obviously happy to have managed to get himself a fare whose money would keep him and his family

for a week. `You just go sightseeing - or to some friends?' `I have to find a place,' she began. 'Er - just drive to Preveza and then I shall give you further instructions.' `Okay,' cheerfully, and with a great jerk the car was bowling along the road again. Breathing a great sigh of relief Mary sank back into the upholstery, trying to calm her rioting nerves. The whole project had taken on enormous proportions during the past hour or so, and she was under no illusions that her trepidation was a direct result of her dependency on her husband. Since coming out of hospital she had leant so completely on him that she felt helpless and inadequate when taking on some task alone. `I can't always have been like this,' she said to herself, noticing rather absent-mindedly that they were just passing the right turn in the road which would have taken her to Dodona. `Surely I had some strength of character before the accident. Why, a man like Damos wouldn't even have given me a second glance had I been such a frightened little mouse as I am now!' `The scenery - it good, yes?' The driver's voice broke into her thoughts and she frowned at the back of his head. She desired only to be left to herself, to relax and enjoy the drive. `Very good,' she answered politely, and glanced through the window. `We leave the plain behind - you notice? And now is the mountains - coming right in on us, yes!' `Yes,' briefly and a trifle coolly now. The man went quiet, keeping his attention on the road all the time. Looking from her window, Mary could not help but gasp at the beauty unfolding all around her as the car climbed steadily into the mountains, some of the summits of which were saw-edged and fearsome, others gently rounded, smooth as the green hills below. There followed a steep and heady drop into the valley of the Louros, one of the most beautiful rivers in all Greece. The road followed its tree-lined banks for several miles,

passing through the pretty villages of Koulessi and Vounitsa where small children by the roadside offered figs for sale to the tourists. `You stop for refreshments?' the driver was saying a short while later. His head was turned right round and Mary's heart gave a great lurch. Like most Greek taxi-drivers he appeared to trust his vehicle to keel) to the road without assistance from him! `I know of a very good cafeneion in Arta.' `No - carry on,' said Mary swiftly, going as far as to make an urgent gesture indicating that he should return his attention to the road. `I am in a hurry to get to Preveza.' The man was deflated, to say the least, but he merely shrugged his broad shoulders and put his foot down again. The road was excellent, so good speed was maintained all the way to the town. `Where you want to stop?' inquired the driver after reaching the waterfront where several cargo boats were loading melons on to their decks. `I want the post office,' she said. `To taxidhromion? I take you there in one two minutes!' `Thank you.' `I wait for you here,' he said on reaching the post office. `You be a long time?' `I don't know how long,' she said. `I am looking for an address of - er - of a friend of mine.' `Address? You ask here for this address?' `I hope to find it in the telephone directory.' His face fell. `It take long time.' A small pause and then, `I go and have some refreshment He thumbed along the road. `In the caf eneion.' Mary nodded. `I'll come to you there, when I've found what I want.' How strange she felt! But then she had never been far from her home - not by herself. And the nature of her mission did not help. She could almost have changed her mind and told the driver to take her back to Yannina. `I go then!' The driver was already getting back in his cab. `I see you later!' And he was

driving away, leaving her wide-eyed, amazed by his trust. To her dismay there were numerous 'Christous' in the directory, and the initial `D' appeared to be equally nu-merous. But then she remembered that her husband had another initial and this made her search much easier. Nevertheless, there were three addresses from which to choose, so she had no alternative than to take them all down and visit them in turn. The very fact of having the address whichever of the three it happened to be - of the house to which she had come as a bride produced in Mary the most peculiar feeling. There seemed to be something fatalistic about it and as she made her way along the street towards the cafe where her taxi-driver was sitting, at a pavement table drinking ouzo and interestedly watching a game of cards being played by four men at the next table, she knew an almost irrepressible desire to tear up the paper on which she had written the addresses and throw the pieces away, to scatter in the wind. `You get what you want?' The driver smiled at her and waved a hand, inviting her to sit down. She shook her head, telling him she did not wish to take any refreshments yet, not until she had conducted the business that had brought her here. This was the house. Instinctively she knew it even as the driver brought the taxi to a standstill at the end of an imposing driveway flanked by high stone pillars from which hung a pair of magnificent wrought-iron gates. It was the last one, the other two being small, non-descript places closer to the town itself. This one stood on a rise which had been approached through an area of semiwoodland. From the rise the view was to the almost land-locked Gulf of Arta with its rim of low wooded hills and its picturesque array of caiques and other colourful craft, including several yachts, their sails flutering gracefully in the wind. The taxi-driver, being a guide, as all Greek taxi-drivers are, began to tell Mary of the

historic Battle of Actium when, just outside the entrance to the harbour, the fleets of Antony and Cleopatra were defeated by Augustus. 'Cleopatra she run off,' he continued while Mary listened politely, but impatiently, for him to come to the end of his story. 'Antony he great lover - you know of him, yes?' and when Mary nodded, `He run after her, instead of staying to fight the battle, and so it was all lost for a woman!’ Mary smiled, as he expected her to, then turned again to look along the drive to the stately house which, from this angle, appeared to be enormous. It was certainly set in the most beautiful gardens imaginable. A fountain, caught by the sun's rays, spread a fan of iridescent colour over a marble statue which stood, naked, framed in a high stone arch over which cascaded a magnificent bougainvillea vine. Stunned by the palatial proportions of the house and its grounds, Mary found herself actually trembling at the idea of being mistress of such an establishment. Why had Damos refused to bring her to see it? There seemed no reason whatsoever for his reluctance ... unless ... Suddenly she thought she understood. He must have come down in the world of wealth since living here; and now he could afford only the house in which they lived at present - a beautiful house, and luxurious, but not in any way to be compared with this delightful residence. `He didn't want me to know that he's suffered some major setback in his business, and so he wouldn't bring me here. Perhaps he imagined I'd not be satisfied with our home after seeing this.' How silly he was! As if money mattered! As if anything mattered except that they should be together. .. and in love. Yes, his love was all she wanted, not anything of material value. `And in any case, our house is lovely. Believe me, Damos,' she whispered just as if he were here to listen, `I'd much rather have it, truly. This place is beautiful, but it frightens me.' It obviously hadn't frightened her once, she reflected, but she could not bear to live in it now.

And yet she wanted to get a closer look. It was as if some force were compelling her to proceed along that drive. Turning, she glanced at the man leaning against his taxi. He was watching her with a curious expression, while his busy fingers counted off his worry beads one by one, flicking them along the greasy cord on which they were threaded. `This is the house you wanted?' He spoke at last, ending the long silence that had ensued since he had finished his story. `Get in-' He swept a hand towards the door which she herself had left open on alighting from the cab, `-and I drive you up to the door.' He paused a second. `They friends of yours?' Almost imperceptibly she shook her head, wondering who lived in the house now. What were they like? How many of them were there? She heard a dog bark, cutting into the noise of the cicadas up in the trees. Someone laughed, then a call echoed through the grounds, 'Rita! Come on in; lunch is ready.' Rita! Mary gave a great start, nerves spinning like Catherine wheels in her head. Rita ... What did it mean? `We go to the door?' The voice of the taxidriver brought her round again. She nodded without knowing she did it. `Very good, madam.' At the decision in his voice she found herself getting into the car, her action entirely automatic. A mist was falling over her mind, just at this time, when she wanted to think clearly. The car was halfway along the drive when she came from the stupor into which she seemed to have fallen as the one word, Rita, eclipsed all else. Leaning forward, she made a panic-stricken little tattoo on the driver's shoulder. 'I - I don't want to go to the house-' `But you say you do, madam. You nod when I ask.' `I'm sorry I misled you. Please turn around and go back.' From out of the mist it had suddenly dawned on her that she would require to have ready some excuse for entering the property - should the owner be

about, that was - but quite apart from this, she now had an over-whelming desire to get away from this house, some instinct warning her not to make any endeavour to learn anything, either about the house itself or its occupants. It was an inexplicable warning, but it brought with it a strange and terrible fear that even now held her partly in its grip. She must get away - speedily! `Turn around, I said!’ 'I not able to to do this in such small space. I have to go to the top.' `You can back-' Too late; he was driving on to where the path widened as it approached the imposing front facade of the house. He stopped, then put the gear into reverse. Just at that particular moment a Greek woman who looked like a servant came from the side of the house, while from another direction, coming along a shady path bordered by flowering bushes, was a tall blonde girl dressed in shorts and a sun-top. She was swinging leisurely along, a beach-wrap in one hand, its belt trailing along the ground. Her head was held high and there was arrogance in every step she took. `Mrs. Damos,' said the woman, `your mother want you; she call many times in last few minutes-' `As I do not happen to be deaf, Anthoula, I heard my mother!' `Sorry, madam,' said the woman meekly. `Your mother - she tell me to find you...' Her voice trailed away as the girl brushed rudely past her and disappeared in the direction from which the woman had come. Neither of the women had noticed the car, which was not only partly hidden by a curving line of bushes, but whose engine had stalled when the driver had brought it to a halt in preparation for turning round. His re-starting of the engine naturally catching the servant's attention, she turned her head. Mary, trembling from head to foot as the words `Mrs. Damos' hammered on her brain, beckoned to the woman even while the warning fought to restrain her. `I heard you address that young lady as Mrs. Damos,' she said through whitened lips. `Who

is she?' `She Mrs. Damos Christous, madam. I go and tell her you want to see her?' `No' Feeling she was about to collapse, Mary pressed a tightly-closed fist to her thudding heart. `No, I didn't come to see her.' She paused, trying desperately to calm both her body and her mind. `Her husband-‘ 'He not here, madam' She broke off, noting the increasing pallor of Mary's face as the blood slowly drained from it. `Are you unwell, madam?' Mary managed to shake her head vigorously, trying to reassure the woman, whose goodnatured features had taken on a decidedly anxious expression. `Her husband?' said Mary again, and at once the woman became expansive, in the typical Greek manner. `He not here, madam,' she said again. `He and his wife they part not long after they get married. It is sad, because he go away after he live here such long time and he have me and my husband long time working for him. He was kind, you know, and he love his mother-' The woman shook her head sadly. `His mother very ill and when he go he take his mother to another hospital - I not know where he go, but it a long way, I think. Mrs. Damos bring her mother to live with her after her husband go and leave her. They English, like you, madam, but they bad peoples - not like my master. `Me and my husband not like Mrs. Damos when he first bring her as a bride,' she went on. `We say to one another that he make big mistake, but if he love her then we say to each other that we will try to like her. But she not speak nice to us and the master used to get angry and one day they have big row, you know, and she tell him to go! Tell any master to leave his own house! We think it will have to be her what have to go, but to our surprise my master leave the house after the big row.' The woman turned her head to glance all around, as it occurred to her that she might be seen talking to this stranger sitting there, pale as

death, in the back of the taxi. On reassuring herself that no one was about the woman continued, `We not want to listen, my husband and me, but we not help hearing when Mrs. Damos say she tell his mother everything if he not go away from the house. We wonder what she mean by this "everything", but we not always understand English if peoples talk too quickly.' She would have gone on and on, but Mary intervened, having heard enough and in addition she was feeling quite physically ill, while her mind was endeavouring to cope with this shattering revelation that had come to her. The shock of learning that she was not Damos's legal wife was very real; all the other attendant circumstances formed nothing but a heapedup mass of chaos in her mind. She could not sort it out; she had no desire to do so, for she felt just as she had felt in the hospital - with a desire to drift away into a state of lethargy where she did not have to think at all. And yet, as the driver took her back the way they had come - through the peaceful countryside - her mind would not rest. She had a searing pain in her head all at once and a little moan escaped her, for she thought for a moment that she was going to die. And then she saw, through a mist, the fleeting glimpse of a picture. She saw herself on a railway station, saw a piece of paper come from a man's pocket and flutter away, carried off irretrievably by the wind. CHAPTER NINE Shattered not only by the knowledge that she was not Damos's wife, but also by the knowledge that he was mar-ried to another woman, Mary felt as if her heart had turned to stone. `I wish I were dead,' she moaned into her pillow, hours after getting into bed. She was numbed by his deceit, tortured by the fact that, somewhere, was a husband she could not now ever love. `How could Damos do this to me? - me, a stranger to him, who was ill, and could not help myself?' She wept

unrestrainedly as the confusion of her mind built up to such gigantic proportions that she wanted only to close it to everything and sink into the sort of oblivion from which one never awakes. It was no wonder that she had been troubled about her future, she thought. By some subconscious instinct she must have known that there was no future for her in Greece, with the man whom she had believed was her husband - the husband she so dearly loved. Her mouth trembled piteously as the tears flowed, soaking her pillow. She recalled how he had refused her love; she had known then that there was something seriously amiss, yet had optimistically told herself later that all would be resolved once her memory returned. Her memory ... Something had come back to her as she sat in the taxi. What was it? The doctor had warned her that although flashes of memory would come, they would go again, for a while at least. But after a moment 'of concentration Mary found that she could see again that piece of paper fluttering away in the breeze. No meaning to it, but the fact that it was there was sufficient for the present. She was still weeping when at last she fell asleep, but to her surprise she awoke thoroughly refreshed, having had a restful night's sleep despite the confusion of her mind and the sure conviction that she would not sleep at all. With a calmness that scarcely registered she rang for Kyriaki and asked for her breakfast to be brought to her on a tray. `You have it in bed? Yes, Mrs. Damos, I bring it in few minutes.' Mrs. Damos ... Thrusting this away, Mary found herself quite capable of attacking the confused and conflicting mass of questions that had built up in her mind as a result of her visit to the house at Preveza. She found that as she continued to sort out the facts her mind was becoming clearer and clearer, and she was convinced that this clarity of thought was a sure prelude to the return of her memory. Had the shock helped?

she wondered, recalling that one of the doctors had mentioned that a shock could sometimes accelerate the return of a lost memory. `Your breakfast, madam.' Kyriaki produced her brightest smile as she placed the tray in front of her mistress. `Shall I pour coffee for you?' `No, thank you, Kyriaki; I can manage.' The door closed behind the girl and Mary immediately tackled her food. So calm ... It came to her now that she was composed because she was able to think clearly. And yet she suspected that this was all most unnatural, and that soon she would be weeping again as her mind dwelt on her desolate and lonely future. For the time being, however, she was continuing to sort and to sift, until at length there emerged a picture that satisfied her in some of its main aspects, although impenetrable clouds still obscured some of the vital points in the story. She felt she knew much of what had happened. Damos's marriage had been hasty simply to please his mother, but it had turned out to be unsuccessful, and as his wife, Rita, had some sort of hold over him he had without argument left her in possession of his beautiful home rather than have her tell his mother `everything', whatever that might be. For the present this must remain a mystery to Mary but, somehow, she decided that it was of no great importance to her personally. The next piece of the story fell into place as Mary saw Damos moving away, and having to take his mother with him. She saw how desperate he must be, aware that the first thing his mother would realize on coming out of her coma was that his wife was not with him. He had told her a story of Rita having gone on a short holiday - playing for time and perhaps in his desperation for his mother's peace of mind actually praying that she would die before she was presented with the knowledge that Damos and his wife had separated. But his mother lived on, and Damos began thinking of a substitute. He had to have an

English girl to take the part - but how did he come to hear about me?' So convenient as to be unbelievable - the fact of his having heard of a girl in a London hospital who, having lost her memory and being unclaimed, was there for him to use for his own ends. `It's too incredible! He needed someone like me and there I was. But how did he come to hear about me?' This was the most vital question of all as far as Mary was concerned at the moment. She in London; Damos in Greece .. . `Someone,' she said thoughtfully, her mind clearer than at any time since the accident, `must have told Damos about me. Someone ... And there is only one person, Don.' Yes, looking back and going over various things Don had said, Mary was left in no doubt at all that it was he who had communicated with Damos, telling him of her position and also telling him certain things about her - such as her fondness for music. `It means that Don is a friend of Damos, that he knew of Damos's terrible predicament. Don said he wished he could contrive some way of getting me out of that hospital. Then, later, when I spoke of running away he spoke urgently, making me promise to wait. He said my husband could come for me any day ... and how relieved he was when eventually I did promise not to run away. He knew that Damos would seize the opportunity of using me.' She wondered if Damos had ever, since that time, asked himself if her real husband had come to claim her. `I expect that, as my real husband had not come in all that time, Damos reached the conclusion that he was not interested in claiming me - or even in troubling to find out what had happened to me. But how desperate Damos must have been to commit a felony like that!' For surely it was a felony to claim her as his wife. Even in her unhappiness Mary could not hate Damos for what he had done to her. His mother was his chief concern at that time; he was desperate because of the break-up of his

marriage which meant that he could no longer take his wife to visit his mother. The more Mary thought about his position the more she felt for him, and the less she blamed him. `He must surely have been almost out of his mind at times, having to practise so much deceit all the while, and having to answer my questions. No wonder he used to become impatient and stop me from probing into the past. Poor Damos; he obviously was unable to answer me!' Many other aspects of the case were cleared up as, still calm and clear-headed, Mary went through them all, sys-tematically and thoroughly. Even the clouds began to disperse and some of the more puzzling incidents were made to fit in. She knew now why Damos's attitude had been as it was on the night she offered herself to him, but oh, how very puzzling it had been at the time! She thought suddenly, `He desired me, though. But it was only desire, not love. Is he still in love with Rita?' The idea was as a dagger point in her heart and she put it from her. What did it matter anyway? We was married, and so was she, Mary, so there could be no future for them together. They must part, and soon. There was nothing to keep them together now that his mother was dead. At any time he chose Damos could make his confession, offer her adequate compensation, and send her back to her own country. This was without doubt his original intention, and naturally it would still be his intention. But although he had done her the greatest injury in bringing her here, not taking into consideration the fact that she might fall in love with him, Mary knew for sure that he was far too kind and sympathetic to cast her off just yet. He would do nothing until her memory was fully restored - until she herself could approach him and inform him that she knew everything. `And then he'll most likely make his wife leave his other house so that he could himself return to it. And Rita ... she will probably be given this house - this house which I love and

where - where I thought I would always remain.' She was speaking aloud, her voice faltering and falling until it was so indistinct that she could scarcely hear it. For utter dejection was sweeping over her, sweeping away her composure and her calm thoughts in a deluge of hopelessness and misery. At this junction she never thought of relatives; Damos had told her she was alone in the world and it must be a fact, since no one had come for her when she was in the hospital not a mother or sister or aunt. No one at all. And so she saw herself cast adrift, with no one in the whole world to whom she could cling. 'What's to become of me?' she cried, shaking her head because she was thinking of the husband who did not want her, and to whom she would never return anyway, even if he suddenly decided he did want her and began searching for her. `He never loved me, that's plain, for if he had he would soon have found me, because it wouldn't have been difficult at all seeing that I was in a hospital.' What was to become of her? she was asking herself over and over again as the daylight hours slowly passed and merged into the fleeting Eastern twilight before the onset of night with its clear purple sky and stars and a crescent moon suspended between two jagged crests of the mountain. If her memory returned within the next week or two she could be gone from here by the end of the month- Her mouth trembled uncontrollably and tears filled her eyes. She had wanted more than anything for her memory to return, but now she wanted only to remain here, where she felt safe, where she knew she could depend on Damos, despite what most people would describe as his dastardly conduct in making a false claim and bringing her here as his wife. She had been told by Damos to go to bed, but she was far too restless for that. No sense in

getting into bed merely to lie awake, dwelling all the while on the terrible bleakness of her future. He arrived back at half past eleven; she was on the patio, sitting in the dark, her eyes clear and bright, her mind not so clear but for all that, dealing capably with what was now being restored to it. `An invalid father,' she murmured. `Did I look after him, or was it someone else? A brother, Richard, and a sister, Pauline ...' They came back one by one, but with the sudden appearance of Damos the memory vanished and she was once again all alone in the world. `Mary, my dear,' were his first words spoken in surprise as, having left the car just there, at the front of the house, he took the patio steps two at a time and came to an abrupt halt on seeing her sitting there. `Why aren't you in bed?' `I wasn't tired.' The low tone, the flat and hopeless edge to it, the tiny sigh which she had not meant him to hear . . . all these made their impression and he asked her what was wrong. `You're not feeling unwell?' he added when she made no immediate reply, and she instantly shook her head. `No, I'm fine.' She blinked rapidly as, Damos having switched on the light, she found her eyes momentarily hurt by it. `You should be in bed. I told you not to wait up for me.' She looked at him, still blinking a little. Just like a husband he spoke to her. How clever had been his acting right from the start. Yes, from the moment they met in the doctor's room at the hospital his acting had been superb. True, there had been the odd occasion when he had been forced to hesitate while he searched for words, but never had there been an occasion when words had failed him altogether. `I'm glad I waited up,' she found herself saying. `It's been lonely today without you.' `It has?' Was it imagination or did he appear just a little pleased that she was telling him he'd been missed? `And what about

yesterday? You enjoyed your trip to Dodona?' She hesitated a long while before answering him. She could not tell him the truth although at first it had been her intention to have the whole business out with him immediately. But now she was in no mood for a show-down. His brain had been taxed to the limit both yester-day and today, and all she desired at this moment was peace and harmony. `Yes, it - it was very enjoyable,' she managed at last, avoiding his very direct gaze. He sat down, hitched up a trouser leg and then clapped his hands in that imperious manner peculiar to all Greek men who held authority over others. `Bring me some coffee,' he said when Theo appeared. `Mary - coffee?' `Yes, please.!’ 'It's not the thing to drink at night,' he said conversationally, leaning back in his chair and stretching his long legs out in front of him. `But I've had rather more alcohol this evening than I usually take.' She glanced at him in surprise. `Was there some special reason?' she asked. `I expect I was feeling depressed,' was his astonishing reply, `so I drank all the way home on the plane.! 'Why should you feel depressed? You were thinking about your mother?' `I suppose it was partly Mother,' he mused, a small sigh having escaped him. `There are so many problems ...' His voice trailed away and she glanced up to try to make out the reason for it. His eyes, dark and brooding, were fixed on her left hand, which was idly resting on the arm of her chair. She watched his face, grim and so very repellent in the shadows, and saw the frown deepen between his eyes. `What problems, Damos?' She was thinking: his marriage seems to have failed entirely; my marriage doesn't mean a thing any more. If only he could love me... Her heartbeats quickened. Was it possible that there was some hope? `Many, my dear,' he answered, his features transformed by one of his rare smiles. `But

don't worry your head about them. They are my own personal problems, not yours.! 'I would like to share them - if that were at all possible..’ `Thank you, Mary. But it isn't possible, I'm afraid.' She wondered what he would say were she to tell him that she had seen his wife, or that the servant, Anthoula, had passed on a great deal of vital information to her, Mary. It was so strange, she mused, but she couldn't feel any anger against Damos for what he had done. She had tried, she had to admit, feeling she ought to hate him, to condemn him, and to feel contempt for him. None of these emotions formed any part of what she felt for Damos; on the contrary, she was as ever profoundly aware of her debt to him, of her gratitude that he had taken her from the place where she had been so discontented and unhappy - and where, but for him, she would still be now, a nervous wreck, no doubt, since every waking moment would have been filled with feverish impatience as she waited for her memory to return. She would virtually have been a prisoner, helpless in the hands of those whose authority she would have been forced to accept. Yes, this debt had emerged from all else; it glowed like a light, reminding her to balance it alongside everything she had against him the fraud, the evasions, the deceit. `Your coffee, Mr. Damos.' Theo's pleasant voice cut through her thoughts as, having carried out the tray, he placed it on the table, which he then brought into the space between the chairs occupied by Mary and Damos. `I have brought cream for you, Mrs. Damos,' he added before, with a slight inclination of his head that was a sign of respect, he silently withdrew. It was pleasant and relaxing to sit out on the patio so late at night, drinking coffee and chatting together. Mary knew that so simple a

life as she had lived since coming here would suit her admirably. She sometimes wondered about the reason for this profound desire for peace, and had reached the conclusion that, prior to the accident, there must have been something more than a little hectic about her life. She had certainly made up for it, though, as, not having any work to do at all, she had had the opportunity of relaxing to her heart's content. `You're very quiet, Mary.' Damos's soft voice came to her; she could not help but notice the gentle edge to it, and the faint hint of anxiety as he added, `If you're tired, my dear, take your coffee and drink it in bed.' She shook her head instantly. `I'd rather stay here,' she told him. `It's peaceful and - and ...' She allowed her voice to trail away to a rather embarrassed silence as she realized she had been going to end her sentence with the word romantic - a word grossly out of place between two people placed as they were. `And what?' came the question she had expected. Damos was pouring the coffee; she watched his careful handling of the cream jug as he made sure that the cream remained floating on the top of the coffee. `You were about to say something else?’ 'It was nothing important, Damos.' `No?' with a slanting glance as he stopped what he was doing for a second or two. She shook her head, accepting the coffee that he handed to her. He paused before putting his own cup to his lips, watching her closely and with a hint of a frown appearing on his forehead. She met his gaze calmly enough, but within her a fine sword point was turning somewhere near her heart, for hope had died suddenly, quite without reason, and she found it impossible to picture any future, with this man whom she had learned so easily to love. `Is something wrong?' he asked, and his tones carried a note of deep concern. `Is - I mean - have you had any evidence that your memory might be returning?' She almost gave a start at this apparent miracle of per-

ception, but she managed to suppress it. Unable to look him in the face and lie, she lowered her eyelids; her long lashes, dark and curling against the pallor of her cheeks, gave her a sort of ethereal beauty of which her companion was potently aware. `N-no ... No, I h-haven't ' She was confused, but fear was her chief emotion. If he thought her memory was returning he might then begin making arrangements for her return to her own country. `It's early yet, Damos,' she added quiveringly, and with a tremor of pleading in her voice of which she herself was unaware but which left Damos extremely puzzled. `I d-don't know why you should think my - my memory is beginning to come back.' She glanced up finally, and saw the strang unfathomable expression in his half-closed eyes. She felt he was perceptively experiencing all that occupied her own mind. It was a frightening sensation to have, but it was there. For Damos's black eyes had several times before struck her as exceedingly far-seeing, and now, as they looked out at her from between those narrowed lids, she was more than a little afraid that he knew she was lying. And if this were so, he must surely wonder why she should lie, especially as she had on so many occasions strained at the bonds that held memory from her, ex-pressing the wish that it would soon return. He said at last, the most odd inflection in his voice, `Promise me, Mary, that you will inform me immediately you get a sign that your memory is being restored.' He looked directly at her, his eyes commanding that she make no attempt to avoid them. `Promise me. It's important.' Important ... So that he could then make plans for her? - plans that in no way included himself, or this house? Perhaps he was impatient to return to his old home. As he loved it so much it was only to be expected that he would be anxious to take up residence there again with the minimum amount of delay. Rita could not force him to let her have that most

beautiful and palatial house now that her hold on him was no longer effective, so she would have to leave and take whatever he provided as an alternative. Damos was still fixing Mary with that direct stare and she made the promise which he had asked for. But to her surprise he made her repeat it, and this she obediently did. But her voice faltered, sinking to a low and husky tone, because she was so acutely aware that she was deceiving him - deceiving him by the very fact of failing to disclose the truth, that her memory had already begun to return. `You must keep that promise, Mary,' he said in the gentlest tone he had ever used to her. `As I said, dear, it's important.' He lifted his cup and drank deeply of the black coffee it contained. He seemed more at ease than when he first joined her on the patio and she wondered if it were her promise that had brought some sort of ease to his mind. Whatever the reason she was glad to see him more relaxed, and a half smile playing about his mouth. `It was rather nice to find you up,' he said, leaning back comfortably against the cushions. `It was an unexpected and most pleasant surprise.' She shone at him across the space separating them, and on her own softly-parted lips a responding smile fluttered. `In that case,' she rejoined, endeavouring to keep her voice steady, `I'm glad I didn't obey your order and go to bed early.' `Order?' he repeated, shaking his head. `It was not an order, Mary.' She laughed then, because of the rather pained expression on his face. Strangely, at this moment, she forgot she was not his wife, so intimate was the scene being performed between them. `Oh, Damos, you needn't adopt that injured air! For you do coerce me - often!' And at that he too was forced to give a sudden gust of laughter. Nevertheless he said, `You exaggerate, my dear Mary. Own to it.'

She shrugged, and nodded her head. `Perhaps I do, just a little.' He said nothing, but began to pour more coffee into their cups. She saw him in profile for an instant, his fine strong features etched against the dimness behind him. Farther back still a row of cypresses made vague silhouettes against the side of the mountain whose higher ranges were shrouded in silver-lined clouds. `It's a beautiful night,' she breathed, a deep contentment spreading over her. `The olive trees, Damos - how pretty their foliage looks in the moonlight - quivering in the breeze, like silver coins hanging from a Christmas tree!' He laughed; tiny crinkles appeared at the sides of his eyes. How she loved him! And he knew it, of course, be-cause she had told him ... Was he conscious of the fact that she loved him, she wondered, or had he determinedly put it away into some far recess of his mind where it would never become troublesome? `You make a pretty picture of the scenery,' he said, handing her her coffee. `I don't need to make a pretty picture,' she argued. `The picture is there - if you look for it, of course.' `Are you insinuating that I never bother to look - to appreciate the scenery here?' The word `here' went deep. She found herself being compelled by some force to say, `The other house ... perhaps you liked the scenery there better than this?' At once he shook his head. `There is no comparison.' `The house, though, that was - er - more attractive, perhaps?' He looked oddly at her, and for a space he made no attempt to reply to her question. `Why should you ask that?' he inquired at last, his narrowed gaze searching her face. `Oh, just for something to say,' she returned lightly. `Was it more attractive?' she repeated, as if she just had to. Did he give a small sigh, or had she imagined it? `It's a great house, Mary, and very beautiful. But I like this one better-'

`You do!' she broke in breathlessly, unaware of his puzzlement at her eagerness. `I'm glad, because I love it here-' What was she saying? There was no probability of her staying here, so what did it matter whether she loved it or not? No probability ... Could she hope, after all? Damos was in such an attractive mood tonight; he was so very gentle and kind and well disposed towards her. True, . he was feeling grateful for what she had done to make his mother's last months happy, but some instinct told her that it was not gratitude that occupied his mind at this moment. He was silent in his chair, staring straight ahead at the moonlit mountains, the fingers of one long slender hand thoughtfully tapping the arm of his chair. Sensing that his desire for this interlude to remain uninterrupted, Mary too fell silent, her mind receiving flashes of memory that one moment lifted her to the heights of optimism and the next carried her down to the depths of despair. There was that afternoon at Dodona, when they had strolled hand in hand by the river, and when later Damos had said that his promise to take her there again and again was one that he would enjoy keeping. Then there intruded the picture of the tall blonde girl who was Damos's wife, the girl who was in possession of his lovely home at Preveza. Mary had to face the fact that her quarrel with her husband could be made up; she also had to remember the Greeks' reluctance to break a marriage. In Greece divorces were exceedingly rare. The next flash was of the night Damos had taken her, Mary, out to dinner. He had been pretending; she recalled her impression of this, and also her own eagerness to enter into a pretence. The bracelet had been bought and given to her; Damos had told her to keep it always, and to remember this night. At the time his words had seemed most strange. How could she possibly forget? she had asked herself. Looking back now it certainly seemed that Damos had cared for her that night, and that it was to be a memory shared by them

alone ... no matter what happened in the future. `He was sad,' she whispered to herself. `Was he sad be-cause he was thinking that we must soon part for ever?' Although she thought this might have been the case, Mary could not be optimistic, simply because the incident seemed to prove beyond doubt that Damos cared something about her, and so the time might come when he would decide that he must divorce his wife. But swiftly on this came the glaring reality of her own married state. She had forgotten it! - had considered herself free. How very complicated it all was! Weary now, she closed her eyes; Damos's soft and gentle tones reached her and she opened them again. `You're so very tired, dear. Off you go to bed.' Even now she was loath to be separated from him and she opened her mouth to deny that she was tired. But an imperious hand prevented her from doing so and a moment later she had left him, sitting there on the patio, and as she turned to take a last glimpse of his dark profile she saw him shake his head, and she could almost hear the shuddering sigh that left his lips. CHAPTER TEN IT was the following afternoon and Mary was sitting in the garden, trying to read. But her thoughts kept straying to Damos's mother and the result was that a flood of sadness and depression prevented any real concentration on the book. A movement caught her eye and she turned, a swift smile giving a glow to her face as Damos, clad only in shorts, came striding towards her from the direction of the house. `Have you finished all your work?' she asked, and he nodded. `All that I intend doing today.' His eyes looked her over in admiration. She was in brief shorts and an even briefer sun-top. For the first time she was shy and embarrassed, remembering that she was not his wife and, therefore, he should not be looking her over like this ... just as if she were his and he had

every right to this examination - and to the stripping off of the scanty garments if he so wished. For his eyes did seem to strip her and naturally the colour rushed to her face. He smiled on noting this most adorable blush, and slid down on the grass opposite to her chair. `Tomorrow,' he said decisively, `we'll go on a trip to Metsovo.' `You'll take me?' Excitement welled up at the idea of another day out together. `I shall love it!’ 'I expect we shall both enjoy it enormously,' he stated, faintly amused by her eagerness. But there was in his eyes a brooding expression she had seen before. He was looking at her wedding ring and she knew instinctively that he was wondering about the man who had put it there. `How many miles is it?' she was asking the following morning as they sat having breakfast on the shady patio at the front of the villa. `Sixty kilometres - thirty-eight miles,' he added swiftly as her forehead creased in a frown of concentration as she prepared to work out the conversion. `It's an exciting drive if you haven't done it before.' `You mean, the way is through a dizzy mountain pass?' He nodded. `The first part of the journey will be along good roads, but then you have a marked deterioration.' `I shall be quite safe,' she said, speaking her thoughts aloud, `if you are driving me.' He smiled at her and her heart leapt at the attractiveness of him. `Thank you, Mary, for your confidence in my driving.' She blinked. Was there a hint of sarcasm in his tone? The idea hurt, causing a shadow to cross her lovely face. `Child,' he said. 'what's wrong?' She told him, with scarcely a second's hesitation. And slowly he shook his head. `Silly girl,' he chided. `Why should I be sarcastic with

you?' A smile broke to erase the shadow. But she said, `The idea hurt, Damos.' He looked into her eyes; already he knew she loved him, but here was proof even if he had not known. His mouth moved, uncontrolled, but he caught his lower lip between his teeth. `You mustn't ever be hurt, Mary,' he told her softly. `Don't ever imagine things that are not there; it's so absurd.’ 'I'm sorry.' Her long lashes sent curling shadows on to her cheeks; the sunlight, catching her hair, turned it to pure, lustrous gold, a halo for a face of exquisite beauty and form. The silence was profound and she glanced up, to stare at his unmoving features. Her smile reappeared, and found a response in his as his face softened. She was acutely conscious of his eyes upon her, but she could not know how moved he was by her gentle unaffected charm as she sat there, her slender brown limbs exposed to the sun, her shyness still very much in evidence. The silence remained unbroken until, on seeing Theo's back as he came from the shrubbery, wheeling a barrow, Damos clapped his hands. The man turned, left the barrow, and made his way towards them. `Bring us out some lemonade-' Damos looked at Mary. `Is lemonade all right for you, or would you prefer some-thing else?' `Lemonade will be very welcome,' she said, and Damos nodded briefly to his servant. It was Kyriaki who brought out the tray, and as she laid it down on the grass Mary suddenly became fascinated by her hands. They were roughened by work, and on one brown wrist were little blisters, one or two of which had burst. `What have you done to your wrist, Kyriaki?' The question seemed to come unbidden, and at the same time something seemed to snap in Mary's brain. `I burn it with fat when I take meat from the oven, Mrs. Damos-' The girl shrugged. `It is nothing; it not hurt now.'

Those burns ... and the roughened hands ... Mary glanced down at her own hands, lying on top of the book which now lay closed on her lap. Flashes seemed to be searing through her brain; she was conscious of Damos's stare, questioning yet alert. She lowered her lashes and said, `You should have a dressing on those burns, Kyriaki, whether they hurt or not. You could pick up an infection.' `Yes, madam, I do what you tell me,' and with a little bobbing movement she was gone. `Are you all right, Mary?' Damos's voice, intruding into a memory ... the memory of a kitchen with steam and a blocked sink, with an open oven door and she her-self before it, doing something ... and a splash of hot fat on her hand ... A complaining voice - masculine; an inquiry about dinner - and now the voice was feminine, and coming from a young and pretty girl, a girl whose glance was contemptuous as she added something about Mary's odd garments that sufficed as clothes. Mary glanced down, at the brief, but very expensive, covering she now wore. She looked at her pretty hands, with their long tapering fingers and peach-tinted nails. The young beautician in Vannina had recommended this attractive colour only the other day, when Mary was in the salon having her hair styled and set. `Mary!' The voice was sharp and commanding. `I asked if you were all right. You've gone so pale.' She looked at him, fully aware that he was filled with anxiety, suspecting she was having glimpses of the past and knowing that, if this were so, he would then have the unenviable task of making his confession. And because she loved him so, she wanted to spare him this confession - or at lust postpone it. There was also an altogether different reason, though, for her reluctance to keep the truth from him: she wanted things to go on just as they were. She was clinging desperately to the safety of Damos's protection. `I'm all right now,' she smiled. 'Kyriaki's burns

looked so sore and angry - they upset me, rather.' To her relief he was satisfied, merely saying he was glad she had told the girl to get a dressing on her wrist. But these village people are so very hard,' he thought to add, clearly in an endeavour to put a stop to Mary's anxiety. `They usually leave nature to take its course and perform the healing of injuries.' She was in her bedroom an hour later, going over the pictures which, this time, had not faded at all. They de-pressed her, for she knew without any doubt whatsoever that her life had been hard and unrewarding. But she naturally at this stage believed that the house she was in was her husband's, so who, she asked herself, was the young girl? Was she a sister-in-law? And did the complaining voice come from Mary's own husband? Perhaps, she thought with a frown, that complaining voice came from her father-inlaw - or it could have come from her own father- Her own father! `There's Father banging on the wall ...' Another young girl - and now memories came flooding in, faster than Mary could cope with them. She crossed the room with legs that were weak - like jelly, almost, and her hands were pressed to her white face. Her lips, bloodless and stiff, moved, but soundlessly, since her throat was blocked. She found the bed and sank down, the wild pulsation of her heart almost suffocating her. What a life she had been used to! A drudge, she had been, for four ungrateful brothers and sisters, and with a bedridden father to care for in addition. And there was to be a baby- A baby ... Would it be there now? she wondered, for one fleeting moment diverted from the main issues. `I can't go back,' she whispered in tones husky and cracked. `I'm used to this life - a good life. How can I ever go back?' A fist was pressed to her mouth, for it trembled so, and tears, unrestrained, poured down her cheeks. `To have sampled this, and then to have to return. Oh, Damos, you don't know what

you've done to me!' The cry was from the heart, and with it came action. Scarcely knowing what she was doing, she flung wide her wardrobe door, and stared at the great array of beautiful clothes hanging there. A shoe rack enclosed in a side cup-board revealed two rows of expensive shoes, while on a shelf above were the accessories to several of her outfits gloves and hats. Damos had made her buy these things, telling her she must build up another wardrobe of clothes to make up for those she had lost ... Another wardrobe of clothes. `I wore rags before,' she said, glancing at the door between the room and that of Damos. `I had no need for clothes.' Putting out a hand to take from the rail a dress which Damos particularly liked, she stood with it before her and glanced through the long mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. She remembered the cost, and how Damos had paid for it as calmly as if he were buying a pocket handkerchief. It had been bought in London, at one of the city's most famous and expensive shops. Returning the dress to the rail, she closed the wardrobe door. It was as if by the action she was shutting out luxury from her life for ever, and with a great sob - forerunner of more tears she pressed the palms of her hands against the door and stood for a long moment, weeping and allowing the memories to continue flooding in. All was clear. She knew that after a scene she had gone out to see the film, then got on 'the wrong train and ended up in London. The paper with her name and address upon it had been lost. Had it not been lost a letter from the railway authorities would have arrived at her home and in consequence her family would have been able to find her, since they would have known that she went to London. Would they have looked after her? Bitterness swept over Mary as she recalled their selfishness. Joe might just have made some small protest but the others would have overridden it and left her in hospital until her memory had

recovered, when she could then have gone back home - to take up where she had left off. But because of the loss of that small piece of paper her whole life had been changed. She had been claimed by a wealthy and handsome Greek, had believed herself to be his wife, believed that all this luxury was hers by right. She was used to servants now, used to buying expensive clothes, paying regular visits to the hairdresser, being driven about in the car with Theo at the wheel. Yes, whenever she happened to want to go into town by car Damos had instructed Theo to take her. `I can't go back!' she cried again, lowering her head to rest it on her outstretched arms. `I won't go back! And the only way to remain here is to pretend that my memory has not yet returned ..: Her voice trailed away as, having raised her head, she thought she heard Damos in the next room. But all was silent and she continued talking to herself. `Yes, I must keep up a pretence, because I can't go back to that unhappy existence. If only they'd shown a little appreciation for all I did if only they'd invited me to accompany them now and then to some party or dance.' They hadn't wanted her in that way. The girls had looked on her as a dowd; the boys had never been interested enough even to comment on her appearance. All four of them had regarded her as a con-venience someone who prepared their meals, did their washing and kept the house tidy, someone who was on hand to nurse them if they happened to be ill. Ill ... Mary saw her father, lying in bed, with no one bothering to go up to him except her. Suddenly she was overwhelmed by guilt at her intention not to communicate with her family. They would have put her father in a hospital, not an atom of doubt about that. And he would be spending his last days among strangers with - most probably - not even a weekly visit from his sons and daughters. `I can't leave him in a hospital,' she quivered, her body

shuddering now and then as silent sobs still went through it. `Oh, how could I for one single moment have been so selfish as to contemplate a total break from my family, especially Father?' No, she must go back, if only to look after him. He must be nearing the end by now; she would bring him home and nurse him ... and what then? The old life, the drudgery? Mary shook her head, deciding to leave that particular decision until it could be put into effect, one way or another. Meanwhile, she was concerned only with her father. She gave a great sigh of resignation and yet she said, her mouth trembling, and her heart feeling as if it was dying a slow and agonizing death within her, `How can I leave Damos when I love him so?' She was staring at her hands, still pressed against the door of the wardrobe. They were beautiful hands now. What would they be like in a few weeks' time? `They'll be like Kyriaki's-' She stopped, her senses reeling as she looked at the wide gold band on her finger. `I'm not married,' she breathed, bringing her hands away and twisting the ring on her finger. `I'm not married!' How she managed to speak she did not know, so wildly was her heart beating as a result of this knowledge flashing in upon her. `I'm free ... free!' How strange, she thought on looking back afterwards, that the fact of her freedom had not been the first thing that had struck her, instead of the last, for surely its significance was far-reaching? Or was it that her mind had, subconciously, decided that her own freedom was not of any great importance when Damos himself was not free? In any case, there was no real indication that even if he were free, he would want Mary for his wife. That he had an affection for her was evident - it could not be otherwise when he was filled with gratitude for what she had done for his mother - but affection was not love. However, the fact that she was free was quite naturally a great load off Mary's mind, and this, coupled with her determination to grasp

every single moment of happiness the trip to Metsovo could give, brought an enchanting glow to her eyes and a new buoyancy to her step, Tomorrow all would have to be revealed to Damos, so that he could arrange for her return to England, but for today, she thought as she sat with him having breakfast on the sunlit patio, she intended forgetting everything but the pleasure of being with the man she loved. `You're a different person, somehow.' Damos spoke across the table, his expression one of puzzlement. `You seem so happy this morning.' Ah, but if only he knew of the terrible ache that lay so very close to the surface of her happiness! If only he knew that, within a few hours, her heart would be breaking. `I'm looking forward to our day out,' she said, producing a bright smile. `Like a child on its birthday,' he murmured softly. `You're very sweet, Mary.' Adorably she blushed at the compliment, so sincerely made. And as she looked at him, noting his expression, it did seem that a final good-bye between them was impossible. An hour later they were leaving the lake of Yannina behind and driving into the Pindus mountains, along a route that wound about so much that at times it seemed almost to loop the loop. They were soon among the high peaks, the gigantic masses of rock soaring to the sky. Not far from heaven, she thought again, looking at her companion to see whether he too were fully appreciating the scenery. `I expect you're used to it,' she said, speaking her thoughts aloud. `Does one ever become used to a spectacle such as this?' `It's fantastic, I agree. I could look again and again.' `So could L' At just under half-way to Metsovo they dropped steeply into a valley drained by the River Arathos, which was below them, while on the other side rose Mount Peristeri, its lower slopes cradling one or two villages where shep-herds wandered, minding their

flocks of sheep and goats. `We soon have a deterioration in the road,' Damos was saying, and almost immediately they came to a part where a mountain torrent swept right across the track in front of them. The next part was hair-raising, with the mountain on one side of a narrow track and a precipice on the other - a sheer drop that made Mary feel quite dizzy as she glanced down, through the window of the car. 'Ooh. ..' she murmured, and Damos turned his head to give her a fleeting look. `Scared?' She shook her head. `No, not at all.' But her eyes were drawn to the side again. He laughed, and said after a pause, `We're almost there. We drive down the mountainside and come right into the square.' The village itself was built into the steep mountainside and as they came nearer to it Damos told her how the local folklore was stronger here than in any other town he knew. `You'll notice that many of the inhabitants wear the local costumes; they also speak two languages, Greek and Vlach, a sort of Latin used a great deal in the Pindus country.' Damos drove into the plateia and found a parking place. Then, taking Mary's arm, he guided her towards one of the outdoor restaurants where, to Mary's delight, a charcoal brazier was burning brightly and over it was being cooked a side of lamb. Here indeed was local colour `You're getting the whole atmosphere of the place here,' said Damos as they took a seat at one of the tables. `Look over there-' He nodded to indicate the direction and Mary turned her head, to see three women in native costume coming along the road. They wore full flowing skirts and gay aprons, while on their heads they had several gailycoloured kerchiefs arranged in what appeared to be the most complicated way imaginable. A short while later, when Mary and Damos were strolling towards the edge of the town,

they saw one of the women again, this time taking two goats up to the hill pastures. `It's like being in another world.' Mary spoke seriously, adding that it was wonderful to get away from the hustle and bustle of modern living. At her words Damos turned rather sharply and said with a frown, But you don't remember the hustle and bustle of modern living. We're very leisurely at Vannina.' A slip. She felt her heart jerk uncomfortably. `I was thinking of London,' she said, avoiding his piercing eyes. `I didn't care much for it when we were shop-ping there.! 'Of course,' he said, `I forgot you'd been shopping in London.' A small pause and then, an odd inflection in his voice, `Supposing you found, one day, that you had to live in a city how would you feel?' Dangerous ground. Yet at the same time there was surely some underlying reason for his inquiry. `I prefer the quietness,' she said, and she had to bite hard on her lip to hold back the moisture fighting to escape from the backs of her eyes. In a few days' time she would have left the peace and tranquillity of the mountains of Greece and returned to her own country. Damos said nothing, but from then on he seemed almost morose. He was far from her, thoughtful and brooding. Was this day not to come up to her expectations, then? However, later, when they were having an early dinner at one of the restaurants, he seemed to drop the dejection that had fallen on him and his mood was a revelation to her, being actually gay, with laughter erasing the natural austerity of his features, and the twinkle in his eyes dissolving their hardness. It was a magic, mystical setting, with the local men taking their evening stroll, dressed in black kilts of home-spun material, and with curled-up toes to their shoes which were embellished with pom-poms. Round the men's waists were wide sashes and on their heads they wore round tasselled caps. There were no women on this evening stroll and

Mary wondered if they were too tired after their day's work, for this was the East, where women toiled and their menfolk took life easy, sitting around in cafes all day playing cards or chatting, while they drank ouzo or some other local brew, bought with the money their wives and daughters earned. On the homeward journey both Damos and Mary were quiet. She was thinking all the while of the time - so very near now - when she would tell Damos that her memory had returned, and that she now knew he was not her husband. She decided also to confess that she had been to the house at Preveza, and learned of his wife's existence. What would be the ultimate outcome of all this remained to be seen. If Damos ever did obtain a divorce, and if at that time he was anxious to marry her, Mary, then he would come for her, to England, and bring her back, this time as his lawful wife. `But it will be a long time hence,' she whispered brokenly. `He'll - he'll forget me when I've gone,' she added inconsistently, for her thoughts were scattered, flitting chaotically from Greece to England, from her family back to Damos, from drudgery to a life of comfort and ease. And, unable to control her unhappiness, she started to cry, quietly, in the dimness of the car as it took the way through the mountains, its headlights flaring into the inky blackness of the night. So lonely and desolate the aspect now, yet it could also have been romantic had Damos been her husband ... her loving husband. She would have rested her hand upon his knee, and he would have instantly removed one of his own hands from the wheel to cover hers and give it a little squeeze before prudently putting it back where it should be. As they neared their home Mary tried desperately to stop crying, but she was quite unable to control her tears and she realized with a little shock that she was distraught, a condition which, she decided, was brought about by the strain of her memory returning in one sudden flood instead of by degrees as the doctors had predicted it would. True, she

had had a couple of glimmerings that had faded, but then had come the whole mass of facts sweeping in upon her and she now guessed that she was suffering from a sort of delayed shock, a repercussion with which she had naturally not reckoned. What must she do? Short of running off the moment she and Damos entered the house she could think of no possible means of keeping her condition from him. And as she could hardly run off without an excuse she resigned herself to making a full confession that night. Well, it would be over and done with, she thought, making no attempt to hide her tear-stained face as, immediately they had entered the house, Damos turned with a smile in his eyes and an inquiry on his lips as to how she had enjoyed her day. `Mary,' he exclaimed instead, `whatever is the matter? Are you unwell?' She looked up into his face; her own face creased suddenly and, following instinct rather than pride or reserve, she sought the comfort of his shoulder on which to weep. His gentle arms went around her, affording warmth and comfort. She tried several times to apologize for this scene, but sobs choked back the words. `Mary dear,' he said hoarsely, drawing her still closer to him, `don't cry so. Tell me, what is wrong-?' Abruptly he stopped, perception dawning in his eyes. `You've begun having recollections of your past,' he declared and quite unconsciously - he allowed a sternness to enter his voice, a sternness that served only to increase Mary's unhappiness. `You didn't keep that promise, and you've been torturing yourself-' Again he stopped, this time be-cause her sobs were racking her body and this was more than he could bear. `I'm sorry,' she managed at last. `I - I didn't m-mean to - to make a scene such as th-this-' She could get no further for the present, her sobs becoming uncontrollable. `Come, child,' he said soothingly. `Come into the sit-ting-room and I'll get you a drink. When you've become more settled we'll talk together.' His arm slid to her shoulders and she allowed herself to be led from the hall

into the lovely room where she had spent so many happy hours, sitting with Damos, listening to records or merely chatting quietly over a drink. He let her sit there on the couch, sipping her brandy, for about five minutes or so and then he said encouragingly, `Would you like to talk now, Mary dear?' She nodded faintly. She was dry-eyed, but small sobs still escaped. `First, Damos, I have a confession to make-' She Joked pleadingly at him, wishing he would sit down in-stead of standing there, in the middle of the room, appearing so tall and frightening. `Say you won't be angry with me. I can't bear it if you are.' Her voice was edged with tears and he hastily assured her that she had nothing to fear. But you don't know what it is,' she added, and at this a faint smile touched his mouth. `No, dear, I'm waiting for you to tell me.' She hesitated for a long moment and then, resign-edly, `When you were in Athens I didn't go to Dodona; I went to Preveza instead.' `Preveza?' sharply and with anger. `I had to see your house - you were so secretive about it and I sensed a mystery, so I took the opportunity offered and went to Preveza. I got your address from the telephone directory at the post office there.' She stared into her glass, her mouth quivering piteously. `I saw your wife - Rita but she didn't see me. A servant came-' She stopped, aware that her account was disjointed, and filled in the gaps by mentioning the taxi, which Rita hadn't noticed. `The servant talked a lot.' Mary went on to relate everything the servant had told her, informing Damos that she, Mary, had then been able to piece the whole story together and, therefore, she knew why he had gone to London and claimed her as his wife. `I realized you were desperate, and that you must have been most interested when your friend Don informed you of my presence in the hospital, and of my plight and eagerness to get out.' She glanced up,

because he was so quiet. His face was so darkly severe that she hastily averted her head again. `Your mother mentioned Preveza,' continued Mary after a long pause. `She was troubled about the removal, but I reassured her, convincing her that we had preferred the scenery up here. I myself did wonder why you moved so far away, but decided it was because you were afraid that Rita might just take it into her head to see your mother and tell her everything - I don't know what "everything" means,' added Mary with a glance of inquiry. Damos moved at last, to walk over to the fireplace, where he rested his arm along the mantelpiece. His eyes, black and stern, yet puzzled too, were subjecting her to an intense scrutiny. `On learning that I was - er - married, you then knew, of course, that you weren't my wife?’ 'Of course, that is what I've just implied.' `And yet you don't appear to have condemned me - to have considered me a blackguard?' Mary shook her head. `I wanted to hate you, but it was impossible. You see, I fully understood your position, that you had to think of your mother before anything else. Besides this, though, I couldn't hate you because my gratitude was as great as yours. Had you not come for me I'd have been in that hospital until now - and I'd have gone mad, believe me, I would.' He said nothing for the moment and she went on to say that many, many puzzling incidents had been explained by that visit to Preveza. `I knew why you - you didn't w-want me . . .' She bent her head to hide the blush that rose to her cheeks. `I was so hurt at the time, but when I understood it was different.' He said, very quietly, `And now, Mary, tell me everything else.' How calmly he had taken the news that she knew of his wife. It might have been a matter of no importance to him whatsoever! `I think the shock of what I learned at Preveza was partly responsible for the return of my

memory,' she said, and even now his only reaction was a rather abstracted nod of his head. `Go on, Mary.' His eyes were on her left hand; she automatically glanced down and said, `I'm not married, Damos.' 'Not married?' Was there a hint of elation in his tone, or had she imagined it? `You're divorced? Widowed?' Mary shook her head. `It's my mother's wedding ring. I've never been married,' and without further ado she related the whole, noticing that his face had cleared miraculously, but at the same time she sensed a rising anger as he learned of the drudgery and thankless tasks, the dull routine where her only relaxation was the odd hour grasped after the family had gone out after the evening meal. She told him of the baby, and at this he interrupted for the first time since she had begun her narrative. `How dared she expect you to care for her child!' `She didn't actually ask me to,' was Mary's swift correction. `But I was so upset at the time that I suppose I imagined things.' She knew this was not so; Damos apparently thought the same, for he made no further comment, but flicked a hand, inviting Mary to continue. This she did, and Damos heard of her impulsive decision to go out - to go anywhere so long as it was away from the house. `I'd put Mother's ring on,' she said, giving a little deprecating shrug of her shoulders. `It - it always seemed to - to give me - comfort She looked at him, laying down her glass on the table as she did so. `I expect you can't understand that it should give me comfort.' `On the contrary, dear, I can understand. Please go on. `The lady next door mentioned that there was a good film on in the next town, so I decided to go and see it.' `All alone - oh, my dear ...' He seemed to be more deeply affected by this than anything else, and her heart warmed to him for his deep understanding of her utter loneliness at that time.

`So you can see, Damos,' she went on after a pause, `why it was that I couldn't hate you. You've given me so much-' She glanced around the beautiful room and added unsteadily, `All this comfort, and money to spend, and no work to do- How could I hate you?' He shook his head, as if for the moment, he could not quite understand so gentle and forgiving an attitude. `It was because I feared that, once your memory returned, your first reaction would be hatred for me, condemnation and blame, and that I extracted that promise from you. I wanted to be with you so that I could have an opportunity of putting forward some kind of defence before you had time to hate and condemn me.' Again he shook his head. `And you never for one moment condemned me. It's incredible!' His gaze was tender and loving and her heart leapt despite the shadow that loomed between them, the shadow of his wife. `And you're not married,' he was murmuring, very quietly, as if to himself. `If only I had known - what a lot of anxiety I would have been saved.' `You mean - you mean - that you - love me?' That question seemed all wrong, once it had been uttered, and she lowered her lashes, avoiding his eyes. But his answer swept away all her embarrassment and she looked up swiftly on hearing him say, in tones so tender that they themselves were a loving caress, `I adore you, Mary,' and he was crossing the room towards her, his arms outstretched. Before she had time to get to her feet he had grasped both her hands and she was drawn up, close to him, his arms embracing her, his mouth seeking her eager lips as she lifted her face to his. `My darling,' he breathed with a great sigh of content when, a long time later, he held her from him. `We're going to be married right away. God, if you knew how I wanted you! And that night - I almost lost my honour, when you came to me, saying you loved me. I almost-' He stopped and shook his head, as if he were shaking off some guilty memory. `It was only

the thought of your married state that stopped me. I'm sure I couldn't have resisted you had I known you were free free to marry me.' His confession shocked her. She said quietly, `You would have been unfaithful to your wife?' `My-?' He laughed outright, while Mary just stared bewilderedly at him. `Dearest Mary, I had quite forgotten-' `Forgotten you were married!' `No, darling, forgotten you'd been so meddlesome as to go to Preveza.' He looked at her with a sort of tender admonition. `You gave yourself a great deal of unnecessary heartache, my love.' Bewilderedly she stared. `I don't understand,' she said. 'Rita is not my wife,' he informed her quietly. `Not-?' Mary found herself trembling from head to foot. `But the servant said she was Mrs. Damos- Oh, yes, she is your wife! The servant mentioned your mother - I know there's not been any mistake’ 'The servant believed that Rita was my wife.' And before Mary could ask any further questions he went on to explain the very simple fact that, his mother having been desirous of seeing him married before she died, he had asked Rita, in return for payment, to pose as his wife. `I met her in an hotel in Athens,' he went on reflectively. `She was working as a receptionist. I saw at once that she was an adventurers, as she was obviously out to attract one of the hotel's more wealthy clients. So I approached her with my proposition, which was an entirely business one, and she instantly agreed to pose as my wife, paying regular visits to the hospital for as long as Mother lived. At that time we thought she was going to die very soon, but as you know she rallied. Rita became tired of these visits; in addition there was a certain amount of friction developing between us owing to her obvious desire to bring a personal element into what was most definitely a business arrangement.' `You mean - she fell in love with you and

wanted to be your real wife?' A half-sneer touched the fine outline of his lips, marring the supreme attractiveness of his face. `She wanted to be my wife, no doubt about that. But as for falling in love-' He stopped and the sneer rolled to include his underlip. `That type doesn't know what love means.' Mary thought about this for a moment and then said, `I was right in all my deductions, wasn't I? She had this hold over you and so you had to leave her in occupation of the house?' `You were right in some of your deductions,' he corrected. `In the most important fact of all you were drastically wrong!' She bit her lip, but a glow of happiness not untinged with humour spread across her face. `I shouldn't have gone,' she admitted. `I knew it was going to cause me pain; I sensed it. But never mind; it's all over and done with now.' Damos remained thought-fully silent and she said, frowning suddenly, `Everything you said was made up, wasn't it? I mean you mentioned some people with whom I had stayed ...' She tailed off, aware that none of all this mattered any more. Every lie had been necessary, but of no importance now. `Don happened to know some people named Rawlins who emigrated to New Zealand, and they provided an easy way out for me.' He looked down into her face and grimaced. `I had no idea, my love, when I so eagerly decided to carry out Don's suggestion, just how very difficult -the whole thing was 'going to be.' `Where did you meet Don?' she wanted to know. `Was it in England?' `No, in Greece. He's friendly with some people I know and he was staying with them once when I paid them a visit. That was before his marriage. We've kept in touch ever since and he knew of my predicament when Rita let me down.' Mary was silent, thinking about Rita and her threats to disclose the deception to his mother unless he left her in possession of his house.

`What will happen to Rita now?' she asked presently, and saw a darkling expression cross her companion's face. `She's already had notification from my lawyers. She has to be out within a month she and her mother!’ 'It's a wonder she didn't realize, when she was threatening you, that her stay could only be temporary.' `She truly believed I'd be driven to marrying her. That was the real object of her threats.' Mary said, puzzled, `Was there really any need to have her living in your house? She could have met you each day and gone to the hospital with you.' `There were problems here. You see, my two servants were in the habit of visiting Mother regularly; they had worked for her before they came to me. It would have been useless for me to trust them to keep silent; Greek peasants are notoriously lacking in tact. They cannot keep a secret.' `So you had to have Rita in your house?' `Reluctantly, yes. I knew what she was and right from the first I did not wholly trust her. However, I did hope that she would keep to her side of the bargain. I kept to mine, paying her well for what she was doing.' `This house,' said Mary, `you like it here?' `I believe I've already told you I do.' He smiled tenderly at her. `We're staying here, my love, so you can take that anxious expression from your face.' She laughed then, and lifted her face invitingly. His eyes devoured her lovingly before, bending his head, he took what was offered. `My beloved,' he whispered, his cool breath caressing her cheek. `Little did I dream, when deciding to go. to London and claim you, that I was in fact following my fate - going to find the girl I'd love, and want for my wife.' `Love ...' She thrilled to the word, for it was spoken with an inflection of vibrancy that

more than betrayed the great depth of his feeling for her. 'Damos, that night when I asked you if you loved me - do you remember it?' He nodded and she went on, `Did you love me at that time? You said you did, and I believed you.' He frowned in silence for a space and then, `I don't quite honestly know whether at that time I had begun to love you, Mary. I remember that when I did realize I was falling in love with you I naturally tried to fight it, believing you to be married - even though it would seem your husband wasn't at all interested in having you back. It was the long delay in anyone coming for you that made me consider Don's suggestion in the first place. He was terribly anxious about you,' he added, going on to say that Don had said emphatically that if he, Damos, would only take Mary it would solve both their problems, which it did. `So you didn't love me?' She spoke to herself, recalling how his reply to hey question had provided the re-assurance she had so desperately required. `As I've said, I don't really know.' He looked apologetically at her. `I felt every kind of a cad that night when I said I loved you. There was no other answer I could give, of course, but I branded myself the world's greatest cheat and rogue.' `You did it all for your mother,' she protested, `and I wouldn't have had it otherwise.' `As things have turned out, neither of us would have had it otherwise, but at the time, Mary, there were so many additional lies necessary all the while. I expect that was the reason for my impatience at times. I was heartily sick of having to keep on deceiving you.' `And I was very trying, as I once said.' `It was only to be expected that you would ask questions, darling.' After a little while Mary wanted to know why Damos had not decided to be open with her after the death of his mother, but he explained that although the idea did occur to him, he felt that Mary might insist on leaving Greece and returning to the hospital.

`Never,' she declared emphatically. `I hated it!’ 'Nevertheless, Mary dear, you'd have felt most un-comfortable and so should I. It was better that I kept quiet.' She agreed, herself making the confession that she had not told him about those first glimmerings of memory simply because she wanted to stay here as long as possible. She felt so safe with him, so protected. `Even later, when everything came back, I decided not to disclose the fact to you, for I couldn't bear the thought of returning to that life of drudgery.' `That was understandable. Well, my sweet, you won't be returning to England at all. Within a week you'll be my wife and your place will be with me.' She allowed him to finish, even though she knew she should have interrupted almost at once. How disappointed he was going to be! `I'm sorry, Damos, but you see, it was because of Father that I did in the end decide that I must tell you about my memory returning.' She paused a moment, her mouth trembling. `It's going to be a terrible wrench, but I must go home, to look after Father until - until the end. As I said, when I was explaining it all, they'll have put him away, I know it. And they won't be like you, Damos, they won't trouble to visit him every single day as we did, and stay with him all the time at the end.' Silence, profound, filled with tension - and with a tinge of anger in the air. `I can't let you go,' declared Damos at last. `You've done your duty and more. Let the others look to your father.' She glanced up into his eyes. `Darling, you don't really mean that,' she said with conviction, and he turned from her, frowning darkly. `I can't let you go,' he repeated, but now there was a certain lack of strength in his words. `Mary, dearest--' `It won't be for long,' she inserted hurriedly. `But I must go; I couldn't live with my conscience if I put my own happiness first.' His mouth was taut, his jaw flexed.

`You want to bring him home?' `Yes, Damos, I do.' She thought he gritted his teeth, but could not be sure. `And, once he's home, you're right back to where you were - slaving for four selfish, ungrateful adults who are perfectly capable of looking after themselves.' He shook his head. She had never seen him in this imperious, domineering mood before. `I won't allow you to return to that sort of life - no, definitely not!' She was put out,, that meek and dependent feeling sweeping over her as it had so many times before. `I must,' she began, when he interrupted her. `We'll both go,' he decided. `And if your father's in hospital we'll visit him every day, as we did with Mother. We'll live in an hotel,' he added in anticipation of her query. 'Well. .. I don't know. . ' `But I do know! You're definitely not going back to that house, Mary. I won't allow you to.' With that firm assertion she found herself capitulating, and in fact she was glad he had taken over and exerted his will. For the very last thing she desired was to go back to her home and begin the old life again. But it was to transpire that there was no need for her to go to England after all. In reply to the cable she sent to Joe she received the information that her father had died two months ago, in hospital. Strangely, the news affected her far less than had the death of Damos's mother. But then there had never been any real love between Mary and her father; what she had done for him had been done for duty alone. It had been the same with her brothers and sisters, and although she wrote a lengthy letter explaining everything and ex-pressing the hope that they would one day come over to Greece for a holiday, she had to admit, although with some sincere regret, that she would not experience any feeling of loss were she never to see any of them again. She had already begun a new life - months ago on first

coming to Greece. In a few days' time she would be be-ginning a new and exciting relationship with the man she loved. Her home was here; England and the thankless routine was behind her, fast fading into a remote past that no longer interested her. As was to be expected, Damos received the news of her father's death without any outward display of emotion. But, underneath, Mary suspected that he was relieved that the necessity of going over to England had been obviated. They were married in the church on the hill above Yannina, and were spending the first few days at home before going off on a cruise to several of the Greek islands. `There are still some minor difficulties to be gone through,' he was saying when, on their wedding night, they stood together on the moonlit verandah of their bed-room overlooking the silvered mountain crests which rose majestically above the lake. `I have friends, Mary, whom I have had to drop. But I shall write to them all later and explain, now that Mother is dead. They'll all be invited.to a dinner-party we shall give on our return, and you shall meet them. You'll like my friends, Mary, and it's a certainty that they'll like you.' She smiled happily up at him. `They'll all Greeks, of course?' `Of course not! I have several English friends, and two American ones. In addition, two of my Greek friends are married to English girls.' `Oh, that'll be lovely!' And she added, quite without thinking, `At home I hadn't one single friend, simply be-cause I never went anywhere where I could make a friend-' The rest was stopped by her husband's kiss. And when, a long time later, he was looking into her eyes again he told her that the past was gone, and with it all the dark days she would ever know. `The future is sun-shine all the way; I shall see to that.' His lips sought hers again and this time all his ardour was revealed in his kiss. She was breathless, but lifted her face for more. With a triumphant

little laugh he picked her up and stepped through the open window into the room beyond. He put her gently down and as he drew the curtains she caught a last glimpse of the regal mountain scene outside, with the majestic, moon-bathed peaks soaring to the sky. `Not far from heaven,' she breathed, rapture shining in her eyes. Her husband turned, and looked at her. A shy smile fluttered; she took a halting step towards him, thrilling to the wealth of love and adoration in his eyes. His arms opened wide and she took another step which brought her close to him. `My dearest wife,' he murmured huskily, and drew her to his heart.