‘Oh yes, Julian. Do.’
‘And you’d talk to me?’
She nodded.
‘In the end,’ he said, watching her intently, ‘I believe you will.... I told you I could wait.’
He relinquished her hand, and shut his eyes.
She got up and sprang away from him down the bank.
The afternoon was breathless with a thundery heat. The fern-clad slopes were sculptured and glittering cascades. Monk’s Water hid between its shady banks. She followed its twisting course, looking ahead of her for the blue of Martin’s shirt, the white of Mariella’s linen frock.
Roddy was a waster.... It was in the family.... Roddy was no good, he was a waster. Perhaps, like Julian, he had mistresses: a French, an Austrian, a Russian—countless mistresses. Perhaps that was an integral part of being a waster....
She came round a sharp corner, and saw, through the elder bushes, a whitish form in the water. It straightened itself swiftly, alert at the sound of her footsteps.
‘Judy?’ called a voice uncertainly—Mariella’s voice.