Olive Warnock

{99}

TO Harry¹ Bruton it seemed an eternity² before the little steamer, Caucase, was berthed³, the gangways placed in position, and the passengers allowed to disembark on the quay⁵ at Le Pirée. For nearly half an hour he had been standing⁶ on the quay-side shouting inanities⁷ to his friend Dick Cassels who, clad in flannels⁸, a straw hat, and a lemon-coloured tie, stood grinning on the deck and failing to catch a word that was called to him.

“Had a good time?” shouted Bruton.

Cassels, examining his watch and craning his neck forward, yelled back:

“Just 8.40.”

“Oh—damn! Can’t you hear?”

“What do you say?”

“Damn!—that’s all.”

This sort of thing could not go on indefinitely, and Bruton, shrugging his shoulders, began to laugh. Nevertheless, he was terribly anxious for Cassels to come on shore. Every minute mattered. God alone knew what might be happening at this very second in that big house on the outskirts⁹ of Athens—that house whose garden even now, in April, was one huge, thick cluster of flowers, crimson¹⁰, blue and yellow.

Bruton had been in Greece a couple of years. Leaving Oxford¹¹ at the age of twenty-three, he had gone to Athens to study and write. Cassels was coming to him for a few days on his way to Constantinople. Friends of many years standing, both had for some weeks been looking forward eagerly to this meeting, and now, though they were within a stone’s throw of each other, they could not clasp hands. At last the gangways were pushed from the boat to the quay, a{100}nd Cassels was one of the first to step on shore.

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