‘Yes. Yes, we must invite the Alexious,’ Maro answered, but as though she were being victimized.

The situation might have continued unresolved, if she had not run into Kikitsa Alexiou in the doorway of a grocer’s off Kolonaki Square.

Then Maro Hajistavrou had to exclaim:

‘Well now, Kikitsa, you might almost say I was on my way to look you up.’

‘Yes, Maro, I know,’ Kikitsa answered. ‘I am quite half to blame.’

She gave Maro one of her looks which, in their youth, would have penetrated uncomfortably deep, but today became deflected on other errands, by other cares. Kikitsa was visibly distracted.

‘We must make a date,’ she said. ‘I am late, you see. Though Anthoula will be there.’

‘Anthoula?’

‘An old servant we had, who went, but returned. She is no great shakes as a servant. But she tolerates cats. Is firm but kind. She gets him his meal if I turn up late. Fancy, Maro, Anthoula has a beard. She shaves it off every second day. I must say she is what you would call slovenly. And has an arrangement with the tradesmen. But is invaluable when I am held up.’

Kikitsa Alexiou appeared positively affairée. So that it was the turn of Maro Hajistavrou to peer below the surface.

‘I should tell you,’ Kikitsa said, not before looking over her shoulder, ‘I have taken a little morning job. You see, I am quite fast on the typewriter, if not always accurate, from copying Aleko’s work. So there is really no reason why I should not help a little in other ways as well.’

‘No reason,’ Maro agreed.

Poor Kikitsa was too distracted.

‘It is a privilege to play a part,’ she said, ‘in such an exceptional man’s life.’

She looked over her shoulder again, and smiled on seeing the empty street. Everyone had gone to lunch.

‘Remind me some time,’ she said, ‘to tell you Anthoula’s story. It is of no importance, but rather nice.’

Maro promised she would, and only remembered years afterwards that Kikitsa had forgotten to tell.

‘And now,’ the latter said, ‘I must run. Because he will be anxious.’

‘Then shall we say Sounion Wednesday afternoon?’ Maro asked tentatively, because she had to.

‘Heavenly, Maroula!’ Kikitsa answered. ‘Now I must really go and see what that girl is doing to my man. Fancy, Anthoula has lovers. Beard and all. And fifty if a day. It appears that men like to be rubbed up the wrong way.’

So Kikitsa ran, an irregular and bumpy motion on account of her many oily parcels, and as she did so it pleased her to remember old Anthoula’s life.