I looked at Lily. She seemed to me to be perceptibly hurt, and just as another wild idea was beginning to run through my mind, that she really was an amnesiac, some beautiful amnesiac he had, somehow, literally and metaphorically laid his hands on, she gave me what was beyond any doubt a contemporary look, a look out of role—a quick, questioning glance that flicked from me to Conchis’s averted head and back again. At once I had the impression that we were two actors with the same doubts about the director.

28

“Buenos Aires. I lived there for nearly four years, until the spring of 1919. I quarreled with my uncle Anastasios, I gave English lessons, I taught the piano. And I felt perpetually in exile from Europe. My father was never to speak or write to me again, but after a while I began to hear from my mother.”

I glanced at Lily, but now, back in role, she was watching Conchis with a politely interested expression on her face. Lamplight became her, infinitely.

“Only one thing of importance happened to me in the Argentine. A friend took me one summer on a tour of the Andean provinces. I learnt about the exploited conditions under which the peons and gauchos had to live. I urgently felt the need to sacrifice myself for the underprivileged. Various things we saw decided me to become a doctor. But the reality of my new career was harsh. The medical faculty at Buenos Aires would not accept me, and I had to work day and night for a year to learn enough science to be enrolled.

“But then the war ended. My father died soon after. Though he never forgave me, or my mother for having helped me both into his world and out of it, he was sufficiently my father to let sleeping dogs lie. So far as I know my disappearance was never discovered by the authorities. My mother was left a sufficient income. The result of all this was that I returned to Europe and settled in Paris with her. We lived in a huge old flat facing the Pantheon, and I began to study medicine seriously. Among the medical students a group formed. We all regarded medicine as a religion, and we called ourselves the Society of Reason. We saw the doctors of the world uniting to form a scientific and ethical elite. We should be in every land and in every government, moral supermen who would eradicate all demagogy, all self-seeking politicians, reaction, chauvinism. We published a manifesto. We held a public meeting in a cinema at Neuilly. But the Communists got to hear of it. They called us Fascists and wrecked the cinema. We tried another meeting in another place. That was attended by a group who called themselves the Militia of Christian Youth—Catholic ultras. Their manners, if not their faces, were identical with those of the Communists. Which was what they termed us. So our grand scheme for utopianizing the world was settled in two scuffles. And heavy bills for damages. I was secretary of the Society of Reason. Nothing could have been less reasonable than my fellow members when it came to paying their share of the bills. No doubt we deserved what we received. Any fool can invent a plan for a more reasonable world. In ten minutes. In five. But to expect people to live reasonably is like asking them to live on paregoric.” He turned to me. “Would you like to read our manifesto, Nicholas?”

“Very much.”

“I will go and get it. And fetch the brandy.”

And so, so soon, I was alone with Lily. But before I could phrase the right remark, the question that would show her I saw no reason why in Conchis’s absence she should maintain the pretending to believe, she stood up.

“Shall we walk up and down?”

I walked beside her. She was only an inch or two shorter than myself, and she walked slowly, slimly, with elegance, looking out to sea, avoiding my eyes, as if she now was shy. I looked around. Conchis was out of hearing.

“Have you been here long?”

“I have not been anywhere long.”

“I meant on the island.”

“So did I.”

She gave me a quick look, softened by a little smile. We had gone round the other arm of the terrace, into the shadow cast by the corner of the bedroom wall.

“An excellent return of service, Miss Montgomery.”

“If you play tennis, I must play tennis back.”

“Must?”

“Maurice must have asked you not to question me.”

“Oh come on. In front of him, okay. I mean, good God, we’re both English, aren’t we?”

“That gives us the freedom to be rude to each other?”

“To get to know each other.”

“Perhaps we are not equally interested in… getting to know each other.” She looked away out over the night. I was nettled.

“You do this thing very charmingly. But what exactly is the game?”

“Please.” Her voice was faintly sharp. “I really cannot stand this.” I guessed why she had brought me around into the shadow. I couldn’t see much of her face.

“Stand what?”

She turned and looked at me and said, in a quiet but fiercely precise voice, “Mr. Urfe.”

I was put in my place.

She went and stood against the parapet at the far end of the terrace, looking towards the central ridge to the north. A breath of listless air from the sea washed behind us.

“Would you shawl me please?”

“Would I?”

“My wrap.”

I hesitated, then turned and went back for the indigo wrap. Conchis was still indoors. I returned and put it around her shoulders, then stood beside her. Without warning she reached her hand sideways and took mine and pressed it, as if to give me courage; and to make me identify her with the original, gentle Lily. She remained staring out across the clearing to the trees.

“Why did you do that?”

“I did not mean to be unkind.”

I mimicked her formal tone. “Can, may I, ask you… where you live here?”

She turned and leant against the edge of the parapet, so that we were facing opposite ways, and came to a decision.

“Over there.” She pointed with her fan.

“That’s the sea. Or are you pointing at thin air?”

“I assure you I live over there.”

An idea struck me. “On a yacht?”

“On land.”

“Curious I’ve never seen your house.”

“I expect you have the wrong kind of sight.”

I could just make out that she had a little smile at the corner of her lips. We were standing very close. The perfume around us.

“I’m being teased.”

“Perhaps you are teasing yourself.”

“I hate being teased.”

She looked at me from the corner of her eyes; a shy malice. “You prefer to tease?”

“Usually. But I don’t mind being teased by someone as pretty and gifted as you are.”

She made a little mock inclination. She had a beautiful neck; the throat of a Nefertiti. The photo in Conchis’s room made her look heavy-chinned, but she wasn’t.

“Then I shall continue to tease you.”

There was silence. Conchis was away far too long for the excuse he had given; I remembered the miserable Janet’s mother, who used to invent elephantine excuses to leave the two of us together in the sitting room, during my year of purgatory in S—.

Her question took me by surprise.

“Do you love Maurice?” She made no attempt to anglicize the French pronunciation, but sounded it with a rather precious exactitude.

“This is only the third time I’ve met him.” She appeared to wait for me to go on. “I’m very grateful for his asking me over here. Especially now.”

She cut short my compliment. “You see, we all love him very much.”

“Who is we?”

“His other visitors and myself.” I could hear the inverted commas. She had turned to face me.

“'Visitor' seems an odd way of putting it.”

“Maurice does not like 'ghost.'”

I smiled. “Or 'actress'?”

Her face betrayed not the least preparedness to concede, to give up her role.

“We are all actors and actresses, Mr. Urfe. You included.”

“Of course. On the stage of the world.”