They would walk up and down for hours, Vladimir with his hand on Paul's
shoulder talking, gesticulating and commanding, while the other, his
eyes on the ground, listened and assented.
Sometimes Vladimir would speak to him in Russian with an accent that
was in itself a caress, and Arithelli, who watched them curiously,
noticed and wondered to see the boy flush and colour like a woman.
She always looked forward with the keenest pleasure to those evenings.
The days bored her, inasmuch as she was capable of being bored, and she
hated the glare and glitter of the sun and sky.
It was too much like the blue-white lights of the Hippodrome. With
night came the glamour of Fairyland, that magic country in which
Ireland still believes, and which is ever there for those who seek it,
"East o' the Sun, and West o' the Moon."
The yacht drifting idly at anchor in smooth water, the stars in their
bed of velvet black, the magic of air and space.
The incense-like scent of Turkish cigarettes and black coffee, the
little group of men lounging in their deck chairs, the resonant, full
notes of the guitar, and Paul's voice rising out of the shadows.
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