The Lighthearted Quest by Ann Bridge

moved by temper, but now she did an odd thing: she knelt down on the dusty gravel and said a prayer for the repose of the soul of the saintly eccentric. Ali eyed her curiously when she returned to the car.
    Casablanca in recent years has become a zoned city, carefully controlled by the Municipal Council. Factories may only be erected on the northern side—and only factories; impossible to get a permit to build a house there. Out to the south on gently rising ground lies the residential zone, spreading all the time—hotels, some blocks of flats, but mostly villas, of all shapes and sizes, in pretty gardens full of flowering shrubs; in that climate everything grows so fast that this modern quarter has not in the least the unfinished aspect of a new garden suburb in England—shrubs rise from the ground practically with the speed of the Hindu magician’s mangrove-tree, while creepers with exotic blossoms smother the walls almost before the plaster is dry. Here no shops may be built; an impassioned petition from the residents was necessary even to get a permit for a petrol-station to be opened for local use.
    Out to this pleasant district Ali proceeded to drive Julia, along avenues of older, larger, more sedate houses; she gazed about her with a lively interest, veiled by her customary vacant expression. Paddy Lynch’s house was a medium-sized villa in the new quarter, covered in flowering roses, climbinggeraniums, and some creeper with dark-green leaves and flowers precisely the colour of tangerine-peel; Paddy himself, lanky, black-haired, with lake-grey eyes set in an Irish smudge of dark eyelashes, was standing waiting for her at the top of a flight of concrete steps—as the car pulled up he ran down to greet her.
    â€œJulia! How splendid! No need to ask how you are—you’re radiant!”
    â€œDear Paddy,” said Julia, giving him a cool kiss. “This is so nice.”
    â€œNita’s away, such a shame; she’d have loved to see you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œOh, a baby—and though a Frenchman produces such splendid pasteurised milk for us all, she thought she’d rather have it in England, and see if she can nurse it herself. But come in.”
    â€œGood idea, nursing,” said Julia, as her host led her into a large sun-filled room; at the further end, through an archway, was another room with a table set for lunch.
    Over drinks—“What on earth are you doing in Morocco?” Mr. Lynch asked.
    â€œSunshine—and articles for my medium papers.”
    â€œWhy aren’t you staying here? I gather you’re going on to Tangier. You ought really to stop and do Marrakesh and Rabat and all that; you could stay with me and I’d drive you over for a week-end.”
    â€œI’d love to do that later on; I’m all booked at Tangier now, hotel and everything. Tell me, Paddy, how are things here now?” Julia asked, with a mental eye on her articles.
    â€œOh, very quiet—there hasn’t been an assassination for at least ten days.”
    Julia laughed.
    â€œWell, that’s quiet for Casa,” said Mr. Lynch, laughing too. “By the way, what time do you sail?”
    â€œOnly tomorrow morning.”
    â€œWhy not come and stay here tonight, then?”
    â€œOh, no, Paddy dear, thank you so much—unpack and re-pack, so exhausting. But I’ll lounge in your nice garden this afternoon, if I may, and have supper with you if I’m asked.”
    â€œOf course you’re asked. Only it will be a bit late because I have to go to a cocktail party this evening. I know—why don’t you come too?”
    Julia made a small face.
    â€œI feel rather like Sir Anthony Eden about cocktail parties. Will it be diplomatic or amusing?”
    â€œWell, the Binghams are nice people—he’s in the Banque Régie Turque.”
    Julia managed to repress a start—when she spoke it was with a real drawl.
    â€œOh