The High Valley. Anne Mather

Dennison chuckled. “I shouldn't think so,” he answered, dampeningly. “The presidente, Queras, is not a man to risk being overthrown.” He lowered his voice. “Even now, there are rumours of reprisals being taken against a handful of guerillas who were captured some weeks ago. At present they're in prison in Queranova, awaiting trial and sentence.”

      “Queranova?” echoed Morgana, with interest. “That's a similar name to the president's, isn't it?”

      Mrs. Dennison gave an impatient click of her tongue. “Of course. These revolutionaries always attempt immortalisation by naming highways and towns after themselves, and then the next government comes along and renames them all in their own image. It's juvenile!”

      Morgana shrugged her slim shoulders. “I suppose it's life,” she remarked. “And such vagaries are not the sole prerogative of the South Americans. Isn't Kennedy Airport named after the late president of the United States?”

      Mrs. Dennison bestowed a slightly impatient glance upon her. “That's quite different, Morgana,” she averred, and turned her attention to other matters. “Laurence, isn't that Colonel Matthews over there?”

      Mr. Dennison drew his eyes away from the attractive picture Morgana made in her dark blue gown, her hair a silvery curtain about her shoulders, and looked in the direction his wife indicated. “Yes,” he said, nodding. “And that's his wife, Sheralyn. Do you want to meet her?”

      Mrs. Dennison's face grew harsher. “No, thank you. Imagine a man of his age marrying a slip of a girl like her!” There was censure in her voice. “He must be almost forty.”

      “You would have had me marry him, Mummy,” Ruth remarked dryly. “And I'm only twenty-two. Sheralyn is around my age, surely.”

      Mrs. Dennison grimaced. “That's altogether different. You're – well – mature, for your age.”

      Ruth cast a mocking glance in Morgana's direction. “You ought to be grateful you have no designing matron on your heels,” she murmured, in an undertone, and Morgana hid a smile.

      Presently, two attachés and their wives joined their group, and as the men had already danced with their wives, the women did not object when their husbands invited Morgana and Ruth to dance. Morgana was glad of the opportunity to escape from Mrs. Dennison's rather boring chatter for a while and Michael Lawson, her partner, entertained her by telling her who some of the guests were. Among this glittering throng of people there were television personalities, film stars, ambassadors and consuls, and the usual accompaniment of officials, all of whom had been welcomed by a huge man who stood by the bar at the end of the room, talking to some of his guests.

      “That's Juan Montoya,” said Michael, as they passed the group. “Weren't you introduced to him on your arrival?”

      “I'm afraid I got lost,” explained Morgana, with a smile, momentarily remembering the man who had collided with her so briefly.

      “I see.” Michael nodded. “And I imagine Mrs. Dennison made a beeline for His Excellency!”

      Morgana caught the twinkle in his eye. “Probably,” she agreed.

      Later in the evening, they sat in the buffet lounge watching the guests dancing and enjoying some of the delicious food that was available. Morgana had some shell fish, and tasted the em padinhas de camarao, or shrimp pasties, light pastries spiced with olives and peppers, one of the local delicacies. There was plenty of meat, cooked in a variety of ways, and fruit and cheese for those who wanted it. The wines they drank were light and palatable, but Morgana preferred the fruit cordials which were freshly squeezed and slightly bitter.

      The Lawsons, and the other man, David Grover and his wife, had stayed with their party, and they had also been joined by a young American army officer called Hugh Bernard. They were all sitting together, talking companionably, in the lounge, when Morgana saw again the man that she had accidentally bumped into. But now he was not alone, two other men and a girl were with him. Curious, in spite of herself, Morgana turned to Michael Lawson who was sitting to one side of her, and said: “Who are they? Do you know?”

      Ruth who was on her other side, leant forward to listen, and Michael followed her gaze with interest. “Oh, you mean the Salvador brothers, Luis and Ricardo,” he replied. “That oldish man with them is Vittorio Salvador, their uncle. I don't know the girl. Why?”

      Morgana coloured and shrugged her slim shoulders. “I was curious, that's all,” she answered swiftly, taking a sip of the wine from the glass that was on the table in front of her.

      Michael studied her expression. “They're certainly a striking pair,” he commented dryly. “But like many handsome animals, they are also dangerous!”

      Laurence Dennison had caught the drift of their conversation, and now he leaned across the table and said: “Are you talking about the Salvador brothers?”

      Morgana felt slightly impatient at his intrusion, but Michael merely nodded. “Yes, we were. Why?”

      Mr. Dennison glanced round surreptitiously. “You have heard they're supposed to be behind the guerillas in Monteraverde?”

      Michael shrugged. “Do you believe it? Would Montoya let them come here like this if he thought –”

      “He can't prove anything,” said Mr. Dennison, authoritatively. “Much as he would like to. And without proof, what can he do? After all, their father did hold a position of power for many years, and they're well-liked in Monteraverde.”

      “Yes, but …” Michael lay back in his seat thoughtfully. “I can't believe they're involved. Besides, isn't Luis entering the priesthood?”

      Mr. Dennison sniffed. “I heard that, too. But nowadays anything is possible. The biggest villain living can wear a saintly smile!”

      Michael shrugged, and David Grover took up the conversation. “Are you saying that the Salvador brothers are villains, Laurie?” he queried lightly.

      “I don't know.” Laurence Dennison shrugged his shoulders.

      Ruth made a face at Morgana. “What did I tell you?” she asked resignedly. “Politics, politics, politics! Do I not get sick of that word?”

      Morgana smiled. “I suppose I'm to blame for this,” she said ruefully.

      Ruth shook her head. “Oh, no. They only needed an excuse. Anything would do.”

      “Well, anyway,” Michael was saying, “Queras has done some pretty doubtful things in his time. Who's to say that a revolution wouldn't be for the better?”

      Mr. Dennison frowned. “Better for whom?” he questioned quietly. “And you be careful what you say, young Lawson. The eyes and ears of the world, you know …”

      Michael grimaced. “What? Here?” he exclaimed. “In this cacophony of sound? I think not.”

      Morgana lay back in her seat, her eyes drifting irresistibly back to that small group of three men and one woman. The man was looking her way and for a moment their eyes met and locked. Then he inclined his head politely and looked away, but not before his brother had observed that salutory recognition. Morgana saw the brother say something to him and then she looked swiftly down at her drink on the table, a hot flush staining her cheeks. She felt strangely exhilarated, and her hands trembled as she lifted her glass. It was ridiculous to feel this way, and yet there was something about the man's dark leanness that disturbed her unfathomably. But to her astonishment, a few moments later she found both of the brothers at her side which succeeded in grasping the attention of every member of their party. Morgana felt terribly embarrassed, and wondered with a sinking heart why they had come.

      The brother she had not encountered seemed to appoint himself spokesman, for he said: “Excuse me, senhorita, but may I be permitted to invite you to dance with me?”

      Morgana was astounded, and she looked awkwardly across at Mr. Dennison for guidance. Mrs. Dennison was looking positively horrified and even Ruth seemed surprised. Laurence Dennison