“She is getting on his nerves,” I said to myself.
I had little compunction in trying to solve this mystery, for I had, so to speak, been dragged in to sit and watch its development. And after my ten minutes’ conversation with Lovelace I formed the theory that he was as deeply in love with Miss Langdon as she was with him; but whereas her love was mingled with triumph and cruelty, his was strained with fear. His love urged him to remain, but his fear, I thought, was continually warning him to escape.
Though I had business elsewhere, I returned to the Hotel Jupiter for lunch, thinking I might witness the “curtain” of the first act of this almost silent drama; but she did not appear. Lovelace was pale and, I thought, anxious; but he kept himself so well under control, and he smiled so pleasantly when I made a joke about King Constantine, whom I had that morning seen outside the Palace, that I felt his seeming anxiety must be only the product of my imagination. His attitude towards me was both aloof and friendly: he was determined to keep his “place,” yet I was sure he liked me. I had copies of that month’s Fortnightly Review and Nineteenth Century in my bedroom, also three or four recent numbers of Punch; these I brought downstairs and gave to him, though I remember that, as I did so, the thought flashed into my mind that I might appear to him to be trying to purchase his confidence. But if he had such a suspicion, he did not show it.
I spent that afternoon in the Museum, visiting the Temple of Jupiter before returning to the hotel. The enervating climate of Athens in the early spring had tired me, and I felt a little depressed as I walked across the Palace Square. On entering the hotel I heard a woman’s voice singing in the drawing-room. Opening the door, I discovered Miss Langdon, the only occupant of the room, sitting at the piano, accompanying herself. Seeing me, she rose.
“May I come in and listen?” I asked.
“Do. I love having an audience. Do you play?”
“Yes. Rather well. At least, I accompany well. You were singing Reynaldo Hahn, weren’t you?”
“Yes—I’ve only just got to know him. Rather like overripe fruit, don’t you think? Only, of course, the very best fruit.”
She laughed.
“Come and play for me,” she said.