Frank Harris

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IN their little flat between Rue¹ Egnatia and the northern end of Rue Venizelos, Marie and Alys Cruchot deemed themselves safe from the great fire which, no one quite knew how, broke out in Salonika that oppressive Sunday in August, 1917. Their habit of holding themselves aloof³ from their neighbours, of disdaining⁴ even to recognize their neighbours’ existence, had isolated⁵ them from all local news, and in the hours of excitement that filled Sunday evening they held themselves more proudly than ever. The fire was a very long way off, and even if it should spread in their direction, it must be days before it could reach them.

Marie, the elder sister, was golden-haired and slim and tall: her skin was golden, and gold-brown were her eyes. She was twenty-three. Alys had her sister’s straightness and slimness; but her hair was dark, her skin was very white, and her eyes were almost lilac-blue. Alys was nineteen.

Their father had been chaplain to the French colony in Salonika, and immediately after his death in 1914 the two girls had been compelled to rely upon their own efforts for the means of support. Refusing all offers of help from their friends, they quickly acquired a working knowledge of shorthand, and were now employed as typists in the great store in Rue Venizelos from ten till six.

None guarded their virtue⁶ so carefully as they guarded theirs: no lives were more secluded⁷ or better ordered. To those whom circumstances compelled them to know, they were very gentle; but to strangers they presented a reserved and haughty⁸ front that protected them from a{144}ll whom their beauty attracted and fascinated.

“Shall we go to bed?” asked Marie, late in the evening.

“Well,” said Alys, rather gravely, “to tell you the truth, I feel too excited to sleep.”

She was

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