Spiro could not understand.

‘Does it stink? Come on in!’ Kikitsa was briskly sweeping off some crumbs. ‘Straight out of the New Yorker into the stench of kephtedakia! My God and little Virgin!’

The Hajistavri were making the difficult adjustment. They had begun to tremble their way across the threshold.

‘And this is the man?’

Kikitsa had always been deliberate. She was peering out of all that fat. Maro remembered how her friend had always noticed more than she.

Then Kikitsa bared her teeth, and when her eyes were positively splintering, she went straight up to Hajistavros, and felt him, as though he had been a piece of expensive material.

‘Lovely, Maro!’ she pronounced.

Maro could not remember having seen Kikitsa’s eyes quite so golden, or quite so reckless.

‘You must admit, Maro darling, men are really rather lovely.’

When they were all three seated in the very small living-room, in the draught which blowing off the roof, appeared mercifully to make a fourth, Kikitsa resumed:

‘This is my home. Homette no doubt you Americans would call it. Aren’t you fascinated the way so much -ette has crept into life?’

Spiro Hajistavros made an extra chin.

Kikitsa did not pause, however. Maro remembered with gratitude that Kikitsa very seldom paused.

‘I expect that is of some sociological – or is it anthropological – significance,’ Kikitsa continued. ‘We’ll have to ask Aleko. When he comes in.’

Would they escape Aleko? Spiro began to wonder and hope.

‘And these are my cats,’ Kikitsa was explaining. ‘This is Hairy – Ronron – and – where – is Apricock?’

Spiro Hajistavros saw that this crazy thing, this Mrs Alexiou, seemed in some distress about her cat. Her over-generous bust began to jump. Little, noticeable points of steel glittered on her temples and her upper lip.

‘Mish-mish-mish? Ver-i-kok-ko! Poon doh? Poon doh?’ Mrs Alexiou called, but always in an undertone.

‘Ah, there!’ Kikitsa whispered. ‘There!’ She drew them gently after. ‘There is my bad Apricock! Look! Look! In my kitchen! Or is it -ette? You should know.’

There was no doubt. The kitchen was minute.

But what was this Kikitsa trying to put over them? Spiro Hajistavros had to wonder. There, in fact, was her orange, ugly cat, stretched out on the kitchen slab between the bourekakia and a pair of Mrs Alexiou’s shoes.

‘One day you shall taste my bourekakia, Monsieur le Restaurateur!’ Kikitsa laughed and promised.

For the present she merely broke off a leaf of pastry with which to tempt her bored cat.

But the great matted Apricock chose to turn his nose away, His great tail dangled, lollop and twitch, lollop and twitch.

‘One day,’ Kikitsa smiled and mused, ‘when the pastry’s nice and fresh.’

‘I shall be very interested,’ Mr Hajistavros murmured, and withdrew his sleeve out of reach of a boiled fowl’s detached claw.

Mrs Alexiou seemed to notice nothing, or if she did, she did not care. She was so in love with Apricock. And when one of her shoes toppled off the marble slab, where it had been lying, into a pan of béchamel, again she did not seem to care. But buried her face in the orange fur.