Something flashed into his eyes, and his lips smiled as he turned to Circe.
“No, Claudia, I don’t think you can remember Mr. Mavrocopoulos. He has not been in England for many years.”
“But I saw you when you were a child of three,” said the man. “I remember you well, very well. I do not pretend that I should have known you as that child, but I remember you well.”
Claudia knew his name as that of a famous and very wealthy Greek family, and she recalled a rumour that had once linked it with her mother’s. Had they found happiness together? Were there golden memories between them? She wondered curiously how a man and woman felt in such a case, who, after the lapse of many years, met again. Did yesterday seem as to-day? Was memory sharp or dulled by time, did they remember the high-water-mark of their passion, or the moment when they had said good-bye? Were they glad to meet again? If she and Frank met after many years, would they——? Then suddenly she heard Fay’s voice saying confidently: “I know you wouldn’t do the things I’ve done.” But Circe had done them, too, and she had not had the excuse poor Fay could bring forward.
There were no signs of regret on her mother’s face. She never spoke as one who finds any bitterness in the dregs of such a past. Indeed, she always spoke as one who felt that she had fulfilled her destiny, who has eaten stolen fruit joyously, without a scruple, without a fear. Her mother’s contempt was for women who looked longingly over the hedge and were afraid to jump.
With a few more words Claudia left the two together.
Circe’s slanting eyes, carefully made up, but in the shaded light still siren-like and magnetic, looked for some seconds into the eyes of the man beside her.
“She is like you, Demetrius, and she has always been my favourite,” she murmured.
His only answer was to take her hand in his, and raise it to his lips.