long, long drop to the rocks and cultivated terraces below. But no premonition troubled her. She simply thought, as she went back to her room, I must remember not to lean against the railing.
She dressed in slacks and shirt and threw a light cardigan over her shoulders, for this was going to be a working day.
When she went downstairs she found Dominic and Mark already at breakfast.
There was fresh crusty bread, smelling deliciously, on the table. There were big yellow cups for coffee, honey in the comb, a jugful of roses adding their fragrance to that of the bread and coffee. She remembered reading somewhere that some famous person—Cicero, she thought— had called Malta “land of roses and honey.”
Dominic was reading the Times of Malta , but he put it down and got to his feet punctiliously. Mark jumped up to pour her some coffee and hot milk.
They ate and talked in desultory fashion. Nobody mentioned Louise’s party. They spoke mainly about the dig.
Nibblu came in after a while, to deliver a message. “The signora says please to wait for her, sir, she wishes to go out with you this morning. She has had breakfast in her room. Now she is getting ready.”
“Message ends,” grinned Mark. “So now what?”
“So we take her with us, as requested. We show her over the dig, every inch of it. We trust that once will be enough.”
Dominic’s voice was grim. He was angry with Louise, but he wasn’t going to play into her hands by losing his temper. He knew her, had her measure. He mustn’t let her get under his skin.
Louise showed no outward sign of her late night. As she came in she exclaimed dramatically, “Lord, what a father and mother of a hangover!” But she looked, in fact, as fresh as if she’d gone to bed at nine o’clock.
“Give me some coffee, Mark, my dear,” she added. “Black, and hot, and strong. It’s the only thing that does any good.”
Gravely Mark handed her the coffee. Louise took it and piled sugar into it. She seemed to be waiting expectantly for adverse comments. She was a little on the defensive, perhaps expecting open criticism from Dominic. His bland politeness seemed to take the wind out of her sails. She eyed him warily. Then she laid herself out to be intelligent about what she was going to see at the dig. Chloe’s fears of a ruined morning began to die away . Louise is no fool, she thought, unaware that already Louise had paid her the same compliment.
When she had finished breakfast, Chloe excused herself and went off to get her photographic paraphernalia, which she had left all ready in the library the night before.
Films, filters, exposure meters, cameras, tripods, flashlight apparatus, notebooks—she checked them over again, then carried them out to the car. Nibblu helped her stow them in the trunk.
“You must take a picture of Dominic and Mark and me when we get to the dig, Miss Linden,” Louise said graciously. “We’ll send it to the Prattler .”
“Good lord, no,” Dominic protested. “We certainly won’t.”
“Oh, but I insist. ‘ Famous archaeologist Professor Dominic Vining, with his cousin Louise Carlyon, and friend, alongside his latest Stone Age discovery .’ It’ll be marvelous publicity for you, darling.”
Dominic said nothing, even more eloquently than yesterday when they were entering Mdina’s splendid silence.
Chloe didn’t have to look at Mark to know he was grinning delightedly again. She fancied he would be particularly enthralled by Louise’s “ and friend .”
At the dig, feverish work was in progress. A gang of men were burrowing into a long, tunnel-like passage leading downhill. The members of Dominic’s team were supervising or sorting piles of pottery, ornaments, bones, statues of grotesquely fat males and females, or making notes and sketches.
Dominic made quick work of introducing them. Toby French, plump, bald and enthusiastic. Hugh Warren, a lean and canny Scot. Dr. du Plessis, a South African with a strong
She dressed in slacks and shirt and threw a light cardigan over her shoulders, for this was going to be a working day.
When she went downstairs she found Dominic and Mark already at breakfast.
There was fresh crusty bread, smelling deliciously, on the table. There were big yellow cups for coffee, honey in the comb, a jugful of roses adding their fragrance to that of the bread and coffee. She remembered reading somewhere that some famous person—Cicero, she thought— had called Malta “land of roses and honey.”
Dominic was reading the Times of Malta , but he put it down and got to his feet punctiliously. Mark jumped up to pour her some coffee and hot milk.
They ate and talked in desultory fashion. Nobody mentioned Louise’s party. They spoke mainly about the dig.
Nibblu came in after a while, to deliver a message. “The signora says please to wait for her, sir, she wishes to go out with you this morning. She has had breakfast in her room. Now she is getting ready.”
“Message ends,” grinned Mark. “So now what?”
“So we take her with us, as requested. We show her over the dig, every inch of it. We trust that once will be enough.”
Dominic’s voice was grim. He was angry with Louise, but he wasn’t going to play into her hands by losing his temper. He knew her, had her measure. He mustn’t let her get under his skin.
Louise showed no outward sign of her late night. As she came in she exclaimed dramatically, “Lord, what a father and mother of a hangover!” But she looked, in fact, as fresh as if she’d gone to bed at nine o’clock.
“Give me some coffee, Mark, my dear,” she added. “Black, and hot, and strong. It’s the only thing that does any good.”
Gravely Mark handed her the coffee. Louise took it and piled sugar into it. She seemed to be waiting expectantly for adverse comments. She was a little on the defensive, perhaps expecting open criticism from Dominic. His bland politeness seemed to take the wind out of her sails. She eyed him warily. Then she laid herself out to be intelligent about what she was going to see at the dig. Chloe’s fears of a ruined morning began to die away . Louise is no fool, she thought, unaware that already Louise had paid her the same compliment.
When she had finished breakfast, Chloe excused herself and went off to get her photographic paraphernalia, which she had left all ready in the library the night before.
Films, filters, exposure meters, cameras, tripods, flashlight apparatus, notebooks—she checked them over again, then carried them out to the car. Nibblu helped her stow them in the trunk.
“You must take a picture of Dominic and Mark and me when we get to the dig, Miss Linden,” Louise said graciously. “We’ll send it to the Prattler .”
“Good lord, no,” Dominic protested. “We certainly won’t.”
“Oh, but I insist. ‘ Famous archaeologist Professor Dominic Vining, with his cousin Louise Carlyon, and friend, alongside his latest Stone Age discovery .’ It’ll be marvelous publicity for you, darling.”
Dominic said nothing, even more eloquently than yesterday when they were entering Mdina’s splendid silence.
Chloe didn’t have to look at Mark to know he was grinning delightedly again. She fancied he would be particularly enthralled by Louise’s “ and friend .”
At the dig, feverish work was in progress. A gang of men were burrowing into a long, tunnel-like passage leading downhill. The members of Dominic’s team were supervising or sorting piles of pottery, ornaments, bones, statues of grotesquely fat males and females, or making notes and sketches.
Dominic made quick work of introducing them. Toby French, plump, bald and enthusiastic. Hugh Warren, a lean and canny Scot. Dr. du Plessis, a South African with a strong
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