There was scaffolding over the front—the South side—and patches of new plaster, a smell of paint and putty and a sound of hammering. The balustrade had been mended and the fallen urn put back. Two peacocks had arrived. Angel had sent an order for them when she was in Greece, and Nora received them nervously. They moped on the terrace, which they covered with their droppings; they moulted; they sometimes screamed but never fanned out their tail-feathers. Nora was worried about everything, especially Angel’s increasing extravagances. The house was eating up money, she wrote to her; but Angel never had the letter. They had moved on; for everywhere was so disappointing. Greece was especially disappointing. It was nothing like her novels. There was so much fallen masonry, dazzling and tiring to the eyes; olive groves looked dusty and really there were only pillars to temples. The food was nauseating, plates of black octopus and black olives and black liver-sausage.
