Free The House on Flamingo Cay by Anne Weale Page B

said before lunch, you are tidy from necessity rather than inclination, and this applies to so many things. We accept the laws of our governments or the changing of the seasons because both are necessary or inevitable. But this is not to say that we desire or enjoy our circumstances.”
    Sara shook her head. “I don’t agree,” she said firmly. “I think most men want love—and marriage with it! They’re not a different species. They need attention and companionship and a home just as much as girls do. And, even if the gloss does wear off a bit after a time, I’m quite sure that a reasonably good marriage is much more satisfactory than a series of casual love affairs.”
    “So at least you are a realist to that extent? You don’t expect the romance to last for ever,” he said smilingly.
    Sara hesitated. “Oh, but I do,” she said gravely. “I know that it very often doesn’t, of course, but I certainly don’t think it’s inevitable. Why shouldn’t people love each other all their lives?”
    He spread his hands. “No strong emotions can last indefinitely. The more passionate they are, the more quickly they burn themselves out.”
    “Infatuations may—I don’t think real love does,” Sara said equably.
    His mouth twitched. “So you have set your heart on a grand passion, a love that will never fade, eh?” he said teasingly.
    “I wouldn’t say that exactly.” She was blushing slightly. “I naturally hope to be happy.”
    “Ah, but these very romantic relationships are frequently most unhappy,” Peter said solemnly. “To lose one’s heart can be an extremely painful experience.”
    “How do you know if it’s never happened to you?” she asked, smiling.
    “Because I have observed the sufferings of those who are in that condition, and they are most pathetic.”
    “Well, I should think it’s better to suffer than never feel any emotions,” Sara said reflectively. “And anyway, one doesn’t choose to fall in love. It just happens, and there’s nothing one can do about it.”
    She had been thinking of Angela as she spoke, but Peter said, “You have experienced this unfortunate predicament?”
    Sara shook her head. “Not yet.”
    “Yet something makes you unhappy,” he said quietly.
    Her eyes widened. “Unhappy?” she repeated, in surprise.
    “I think so. Unhappy—or worried? There are often moments when your thoughts are somewhere else and there is a frown here.” He leaned across and touched her forehead with one finger. “I thought perhaps you were missing some boy in England,” he added gently.
    Sara’s color deepened as she shook her head. “Oh, no! I—I’m rather given to day-dreaming, that’s all. I didn’t realize I looked doleful while I was doing it.”
    “Not doleful—but a little forlorn, and very young.” His mouth curved. “You make me conscious of my years.”
    “How old are you?” Sara asked.
    “Thirty-one.”
    “But that’s not old,” she said, smiling.
    He gestured. “It is not the number of years but how one has spent them that makes age.”
    Sara had hesitated to ask him about his past life from the feeling that there might be a great deal of it which he did not wish to recall. But now she said diffidently: “What were you going to do if you hadn’t had to leave Hungary, Peter? I mean, had you a job you liked?”
    He reached for the coffee pot and refilled their cups. “You have heard of Tokay?” he asked.
    “It’s a drink, isn’t it?” she said uncertainly.
    “Yes, it is a sweet wine. The name comes from a town in the north of Hungary. It is on the river Tiza and not far from the border with Czechoslovakia. Then there is also Imperial Tokay which is a fine liqueur. For many generations my family had grown the grapes from which Tokay is made and, from a small boy, I had learnt the culture of the vines. But even before the rebellion, our life was becoming very difficult. After my father died, I knew I could not stay long. It is not pleasant