Maro tied Kikitsa’s letters and kept them under her writing-paper.

Kikitsa wrote:

Dear, dear Maro,

There are times when I find men reasonably fascinating. When, for example, they scoop the balls off a tennis court, and present them on a racquet, like something formal on a dish. There is one creature in particular I shall refer to as A. for the time being – or as long as he remains anonymous!

Maro Mauroleondos had grown thinner, paler, in the aunt’s Byzantine apartment, in the Park Avenue Gothic spire.

I assure you, Maro, the Aunt Cecaumenou said, the attitude is different, the pace brisker over here. It is quite in order for young girls to carry contraceptives in their hand-bags. Though, of course, connections should be taken into account. Not every date is desirable.

Maro Mauroleondos had locked herself in the lavatory, and remained there several hours.

Kikitsa wrote:

Dear Maro,

I am engaged to Aleko Alexiou. He is an intellectual! Of good, but impoverished family, however. I am so excited! I have always felt that anything of consequence must be short, sharp, stunning. It will not be long before we are married ...

Maro Mauroleondos had walked in the rain, in a mackintosh, on Lexington. In a restaurant near 52nd, which fate had chosen for her, she ordered food when it was time. Nothing would have caused her to remember a luxury muted by discretion, if the proprietor had not approached. You are a Greek, she found him accusing her. How, she asked, could he have known? You are black enough, moree, the proprietor had said. When she had always prided herself. After dismissing her order of Manhattan chowder and cole slaw, he called for soudzoukakia, and fed her, literally, off the fork. As he told her the story of his inevitably poor boyhood and eventual success, his gravity prevailed over his somewhat gorgeous clothes. Maro Mauroleondos allowed herself to became fascinated by the blunt fingers of the black Greek forking the soudzoukakia into her mouth. The action made her drowsy at last. She would not have been surprised to find herself sinking, in childlike trust, into the receptive carpet. He was, in fact, she discovered later, more than ten years her senior. But what did it matter? Unhappiness in the beginning made it even desirable, and that he should escort her afterwards, between an umbrella and the plate-glass windows, back to the Gothic tower. Safe. His name, he told her, was Hajistavros.

It was over twenty years since Mrs Hajistavrou had left Athens for her aunt’s patronage in New York, it was over thirty since Hajistavros had reached Piraeus from Taygetos. Not surprising that neither of them now belonged.

‘You gotta admit, Maro, it’s scenic. A paradise for tourists.’ Mr Hajistavros panted on the slopes. ‘Whichever direction. Take the Parthenon. Take Hymettus.’

‘Ah, I do not care for Hymettus!’ cried his wife, and frowned. ‘It’s so ugly. They cut down the trees during the Occupation. But even before they cut down the trees Hymettus was ugly. Irregular.’