Her head was downcast as she studied the museum-like exhibits of various dusts on the resilient tile flooring. All through the love music of the second act, until the hunting horns of Mark break in upon the dream, Ann Veronica’s consciousness was flooded with the perception of a man close beside her, preparing some new thing to say to her, preparing, perhaps, to touch her, stretching hungry invisible tentacles about her. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. ‘Troops?’ ‘Go, man,’ urged the major in an undervoice. Keep your eye upon the lad.
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