Alex was the moody prince with his pent-up angst. He was still slight at the waist and hips, still had his thick hair with its bronze gleam cut in the old style, fringe hanging into his eyes. The hazel cat’s eyes and curving mouth – too often closed in disappointment – were sensual and feminine despite himself. He’d have liked to give nothing away. And yet he was also vain, he was human, he was like everyone else: Christine knew how, although he avoided mirrors, if he caught sight inadvertently of his own reflection he straightened his shoulders and stood taller, renewed by these glimpses of his good looks, his power. When they went out in company other women looked at Alex surreptitiously or hungrily, and Christine was gratified that such a man had chosen her. But how long would the women admire him if he persisted in refusing to take on any substantial role in the world, or any status? Reading so much and knowing so much, but with nothing to show for it.