But almost as the visitor’s chair grated in the preliminaries of departure, an approach was heard, along the gravel, from the direction of the house.

Unable to force himself to look, Malliakas stood hunched in the constricted space of the latticed pavilion, and listened to the breath rattling in his anxious chest.

Then, when the footsteps had advanced to the point of no avoidance, the old man repeated: ‘To make use of her,’ and added with conviction, still without looking: ‘She has come, though, and you shall make her acquaintance, and I shall have my soup.’

The visitor glanced at the brown woman approaching the little garden-house. Stolid, but sure, she came on, crunching over the wet gravel, avoiding any mud or puddles.

‘Aglaia,’ Mr Philippides said at last, ‘this gentleman is the Alexandrian. The friend of Tillotson, who wrote us. You remember? From Smyrna. Tillotson was in figs, I believe. He plays an energetic game of tennis.’

In Mrs Philippides’ confident approach, only her smile revealed some slight difference. It was very white and pleasing, though, framed in her rather brown face.

Relief did not prevent Malliakas murmuring about his bus.

‘Yes, yes, we shall catch the bus,’ Mrs Philippides promised, but first had to touch her husband. ‘It is damp,’ she said, rearranging the plaid. ‘Your tea is cold.’

‘And should be a whole lot colder, considering the time we’ve waited,’ Philippides said peevishly. ‘What about the avgolemono? We discussed it enough to be hungry for it.’

‘Yes,’ she consoled. ‘You shall have the avgolemono.’

Her broad hand with the gold ring remained unhurried in its rite of reassurance.

She announced calmly: ‘I shall take the gentleman to the bus.’ But began to coax: ‘Won’t you walk with us as far as the house? Geneviève shall light a fire.’

‘Fire! I shall stay a little longer. By myself,’ Philippides insisted in his dry voice. ‘And watch the sunset. If there is one.’

For all those Swiss clouds denied the possibility.

As Mrs Philippides appeared about to lead, Malliakas prepared to follow.

‘Come again,’ said the old man. ‘And I must tell you about my wife. We had always meant to go back, to look for the property in Smyrna. But she did not care to face the Turks. We were always intending to do this and that. To learn to cook. Or keep our tempers.’

But the other Mrs Philippides had begun to lead the visitor away, and he obeyed, following her squat figure, under the wide, summer hat.

The fact that her back was turned on the gentleman – the path made this unavoidable – possibly emboldened her. She began to talk.

‘He will sit there for hours,’ she said. ‘It is his favourite place. It is his greatest pleasure. Drinking tea out of that glass. He told you about them.’

She did not ask.

‘Won’t he catch cold?’

‘He can stand, oh, any amount of fresh air. And has his thoughts.’

She continued plodding. Silenter.

‘He told you about Her?’ she asked. ‘She would have known how to entertain you. What to say,’ Mrs Philippides said.