BATTLE OF LOVE

Kathryn Blair
When Catherine's husband was killed in a motor-racing accident,
she and her young son were summoned to France to live with her
domineering father-in-law, Leon Verender, who had never
approved of his son's marriage but was determined to bring up his
grandson in his own way.

A clash of wills followed, but Catherine eventually won Leon's

affection and respect, as well as finding a new happiness and love
with Dr. Philippe Sellier.
CHAPTER ONE

FROM the Lower Corniche road it was a steep, winding drive

among pinewoods to the rich villas on the fringe of Pontrieux. The
pines came to an end, garden walls began and the trees behind
them were as tropically luxuriant as any to be found on the
Mediterranean seaboard. The villas those gardens embellished
were almost invisible from the road. A fluted tile roof once in a
while, the glimpse of a gay awning over a patio, perhaps an upper
window guarded by an ornamental grille; that was all.

"There's not a single garden under three acres," said the young man
who had met Catherine and Timothy at the airport, "and Mr.
Verender has eight acres - the most spectacular garden on the
coast. You'll probably find things a bit roomy after a
Knightsbridge flat."

Catherine smiled. "I like space," she said, "and I was fully
expecting an enormous house and garden."

"And yet you've never met Leon Verender?" Michael Dean's hazel
glance was curious. "I've only been here three years, but I never
heard him speak about you till we had to get the lawyer to contact
you, about ten months ago. Doesn't it feel a bit odd - to be on the
point of meeting your father- in-law for the first time?"

"Of course it does. You must know him rather well. How do you
think he'll like Timothy?"

The young man rested an interested glance on the small fair-haired

boy who was standing between them, absorbedly contemplating
the road ahead. "He's a fine kid, and the last of the Verenders. But
don't count too much on pleasing old sourpuss. If he didn't pay me
well I wouldn't stick the Villa Chaussy for another week. And I'm
only the man's secretary!"
"I don't intend to be frightened of him," she said. "I got over all
fear of Leon Verender a long time ago. Being his secretary, you
probably know the history of my marriage to Ewart?"

"I've gathered it." Michael Dean was awkward, as an extrovert

often is when faced with someone else's remembered grief. "It
must have been pretty rugged when your husband was killed.
Honestly, I can never understand a married man going in for
motor-racing."

Catherine kept her gaze on the passing trees. "Ewart had done so
much of it before we married. He missed the tearing excitement
and the crowds, and was drawn back into it. It seems a lot more
than a year since it all happened."

"Yes, I guess it does."

His clean-cut, uncaring young face was clouded only momentarily.

He was looking at Catherine Verender and remembering his
surprise at the airport. She had crossed the tarmac gracefully, a
slim figure in a heather-blue suit with a tiny matching cap securely
set upon pale titian hair that was swathed into a neat sort of pleat at
the back. Her hand had held the little boy's, and as Michael had
approached them he'd heard her talking cheerfully, as though this
were something she did every day - arrive on the Cote d'Azur to
meet her future.

She was twenty-six; he knew that from the copies of birth and
marriage certificates which the lawyer had secured. But somehow
he'd ignored the age and pictured her only through what he knew
of her. At twenty-one she had married Ewart Verender, and a year
later along came Timothy. Two years after that, Ewart had gone
back to motor-racing in a blare of publicity, but the comeback was
a failure and was terminated by that last fatal race.
Michael hadn't been in on the discussions between the lawyer and
old Verender; he had only had to write letters and send money. But
it hadn't been difficult to surmise that Leon Verender had
forbidden his son's marriage to Catherine, that he had ceased
writing to Ewart and apparently not even thought about him till the
news of his death was flashed across the continent. Michael had
often wondered whether the old man had even known of the
existence of his grandson before he had seen it in print: "Ewart
Verender leaves a young wife and son."

And what a wife, thought Michael. She made the glamour girls on
the beach at Nice look like browned potatoes. That hair - it must
be quite long - the exceptionally clear blue- green eyes, the fine
strong bones of her face, the curving lips just nicely tinted, and the
incredibly clear pale skin with its undertone of pink. Not pretty -
the wide forehead opposed prettiness - and not exactly beautiful,
unless you were addicted to fine-boned redheads. She looked quiet
and yet vital.

The little boy turned round, fixed Michael with his wide- set blue
eyes and asked, "Are we nearly there, please?"

"The entrance is just round the next bend. There, you can see it
now - the white posts on the right. Are you glad to be here?"

"Very glad, thank you. But I don't think Beanie is glad.";

"Who's Beanie?"

"Him." Timothy indicated a tired-looking teddy-Sear which lolled

on the floor. "He was sick on the plane."

"But he's over it now, darling," said Catherine. "Pick him up and
hold him tight. Look at the garden; you never saw flowers like
those before."
Some of them Catherine herself had never seen, but just now they
appeared as no more than a riot of colour. As they approached the
Villa Chaussy she found it impossible to admire palms and
bougainvillaea, hibiscus and flame creepers; because, in spite of
the calm she had assumed, this was a moment of such tremendous
significance that the whole of her being could not help but be
aware of it. She wasn't afraid; in fact she rather wanted to meet the
rich, successful man who was her father-in-law. But it wasn't
going to be as simple as that. From Leon Verender himself she had
received only one letter - a dozen words of invitation. It was the
lawyer who had made it very plain that as Leon Verender was the
child's guardian he had the right to insist that Mrs. Ewart Verender
and the child, Timothy Verender, become members of his
household.

Actually, the discovery that Ewart had named his father as her co-
guardian of Timothy had come as a blow to Catherine. The man
had been against their marriage, had ignored them completely. He
had many business interests in London and had many times visited
England; she had seen his visits reported in the daily papers. But
not once had he ever telephoned the flat. A few times she had
mentioned that perhaps Ewart should go over to Pontrieux; if his
father was so obstinate it was unlikely he would approach them,
but he might be longing for his son to take the first step.

"You don't know my old man," Ewart had said with his charming
grin. "When I married a kindergarten teacher from Ealing I cooked
my goose. What's more, I don't care; he'd expect too much from
me, anyway. I wouldn't go to him even if we were broke - and
we're not that yet."

They'd come pretty near it a few times, but it hadn't mattered

terribly. Not till Ewart had started racing again.
The long gleaming car drew up in front of a huge, square, white
villa. Green louvred shutters flanked the upper windows, but the
lower floor was set back, so that a terrace, supported by curved
archway posts, ran from the front entrance to the end of the house.
There was a front courtyard or patio and three marble steps up to
the arched doorway.

Michael Dean slipped out on to the drive. "I'll deal with your
luggage in a minute or two. First, I'd better take you into the small
salon, and tell Mr. Verender you're here."

He touched the little boy's shoulder and indicated the way he

should go, and Catherine mounted the steps slightly ahead of them,
so that when the door opened suddenly and a man came striding
out he nearly swept her off the top step.

He was tall and darkish, lean-featured, sallow-skinned. Catherine

saw that much as he gripped her arms to save her and exclaimed,
"Pardon! Mademoiselle, je vous prie... "

"It's nothing," she murmured automatically.

Swiftly, his hands dropped. He took a quick glance at Timothy and

half bowed. "Madame, I am so sorry. I was hurrying to an
appointment. Mille pardons!"

And he went down the steps and crossed the drive to his car.

Michael then led the way into a long tiled hall. A beautiful hall
with lovely inlaid tables set against the walls and flowers and table
lamps framed by the grey panelling. Opposite the entrance a treble
archway led into a corridor which no doubt gave access to a
staircase and lower rooms.

"Who was that man?" Catherine asked.

"Dr. Sellier. I suppose I ought to have introduced you. He's Mr.
Verender's doctor and looks after the staff, too. He's attending the
housekeeper's husband - old chap cracked his knee in the garden
and spends his time grousing in the kitchen. Come this way, will
you" He opened a tall door and ushered them into a large room
which, at first sight, appeared to be filled with works of art. "Sit
down, will you? Mr. Verender's probably in the study, just through
there."

He had nodded towards a door at the end of the room, and after
seeing them seated he went to it and knocked, before disappearing
and closing the door after him. Catherine stood up again, laid her
bag and gloves on a table, kept Timothy's small moist hand in hers
and wandered round the room. Chinese rugs on highly polished
tiles, a damask sofa and a few chairs on spindly legs with gilding
on the mahogany, fine oils on the walls, and odd medieval trophies
here and there, on cabinets and small pedestals.

"What's that thing?" asked Timothy.

"An idol of some sort - a kind of doll, really. Not pretty, is he? But
that's a lovely old clock."

"Is this the sitting-room? There's no television."

"I expect there's one somewhere. In sunny places you don't bother
much with television. Darling..."

She stopped suddenly, as the door through which Michael Dean

had vanished opened again. She felt her fingers tighten about the
little boy's hand, felt her shoulders go back and her chin lift.
Standing there, braced to meet the man who had ignored her
existence for five years, she looked young and proud and sensitive.
He came in, a thick-shouldered man of average height in a light
suit. His hair was grey and quite white at the temples, but his
features, longish except for the faintly pugnacious jaw, were clear-
cut, the flesh firmer than one might expect in a man past sixty. His
eyes, set fairly close together with the thin bridge of his nose rather
prominent between them, were dark, piercing blue. He held out a
big capable hand.

"So you're Catherine, are you?" he said, in deep, uncompromising

tones. "Welcome to the Villa Ghaussy."

"Thank you. This is Timothy."

"I imagined that. Well, young man?"

Timothy was tongue-tied. He stared up at the man, a small boy

with pink and white skin, large blue eyes and a bang of fair curly
hair over one eye. In navy shorts and jacket with a little white shirt
and his first tie, he looked tired from his first plane trip.

Catherine said gently, "This is Grandfather, Timothy, Say 'How do

you do'."

Timothy swallowed. "How do you do, Grandfather."

Leon Verender's thick eyebrows came together. He made a

grunting sound. '"Looks half asleep," he commented. "Sounds it,
too." He turned and called loudly: "Dean, come in here!"

Michael obeyed. "Yes, sir?"

"Take this toy up to his room."

"I'll go with him," said Catherine. "The house is strange to him."

"It won't be strange for long. The boy knows Dean and will be safe
with him." Leon Verender waved a hand. "Go along, child. He'll
give you tea and cakes and stay with you till your mother comes."

Catherine steeled herself. She had to be very careful here; she

could feel it. The man was so accustomed to being alone and
commanding everyone that if she weren't cautious there'd be
trouble right from the beginning. And the very last thing she
wanted was trouble. So, as Timothy had taken to Michael, she let
the young man shepherd him from the room.

But as she looked back at this man who had been her silent
adversary for so long, her sinews contracted, ready for battle.

As though to confound her, Leon Verender became surprisingly

agreeable. "Sit down and we'll have some tea. It's time we knew
each other."

Catherine couldn't have agreed more. Relieved, she sank into one
of the damask chairs. The man rang a bell and told the manservant
who answered that he wanted tea for two, quick. Then he too sat
down, squarely facing Catherine.

"Do you smoke?"

"Yes, but not now, thank you."

He took a cigar from a silver box on the table, fingered it and

dropped it back into the box. "Afraid of me?" he asked.

"No," she said, neither shyly nor firmly.

"You are, a little." He gazed at her intently. "You don't like this
situation, do you?"
"Not very much."

"You had big romantic ideas of earning a living to keep that child
in the way to which his father had been accustomed. It set you
back a bit when I insisted on my rights as his guardian, didn't it?"

"Is this how we get to know each other?" she asked quietly.

Just slightly, his lower lip jutted. "Very well. Tell me about
yourself. I know that you met my son through your brother, who at
that time was also interested in motor-racing. How did you hook
him?" Hastily, as her lips parted, he threw out a hand. "All right, I
know. You have looks and an air of breeding. We'll leave it there.
What sort of marriage was it?"

"Happy, in spite of ups and downs. Ewart did fairly well as a

sports writer, but he hated being on what he called the wrong side
of the sporting fence. We weren't well off when we married, but
his wedding present to me was the best I could have had: he
promised to give up racing."

"The fact that he took it up again means the marriage failed."

"It only means," she said abruptly, "that Ewart wasn't cut out for
marriage with someone like me. I wanted to be a wife, not a camp-
follower."

"You begged him not to race again?"

"Of course I did, but he hated watching events without taking

part."

"He was a fool." This statement hung, on the air for a moment,
while the manservant, a middle-aged Frenchman in white jacket
and black trousers, served tea and a variety of sandwiches and
pastries.

Then, as the man made to withdraw, Leon Verender said, "My

butler, Antoine. My son's wife, Antoine."

The little dark man glowed, murmured, "Madame," and bowed

himself out.

"Shall I pour?" Catherine asked.

"Black with lemon for me. And none of that mess of eatables. The
worst of being old and rich is the food you can't eat, the late hours
you can't keep and the hangers-on you can't get rid of." He took his
cup, watched her set the heavily chased silver teapot back on its
stand and drop a domino of sugar into her own cup. "It's at least
six months since I first proposed that you come out here. Why
have you been so difficult?"

"It's several years since you repudiated my marriage," she pointed

out. "Why were you so difficult?"

"I had a young woman lined up for Ewart. He had no business

head and too many racing cars, but he was a Verender and I
intended him to marry well. This girl was the daughter of a count.
She wasn't much to look at, but she was the sort of daughter-in-law
I wanted: blue blood, tradition, the lot. Ewart was always perverse,
so I shouldn't really have been surprised when he wrote that he
was going to marry a girl who taught a kindergarten class. I
imagined some flighty, pretty little piece Who would badger him
till he brought her out here, to try her tricks on me. I was quite sure
he'd been married for his expectations."

"And you were quite wrong."

"Maybe." His smile held more than a hint of malice. "I'll bet the
news that Ewart had named me as the child's guardian in his will
made you raving mad. You know why he did it, don't you?"

"Yes. He wanted to be sure that Timothy could go to the best

schools and a university." She gave him a direct glance. 'Td accept
that from you - financial help for Timothy."

"You'll have to accept more than that, my girl," he declared

blandly. "You're here to stay, unless you're willing to relinquish
the boy entirely."

"I'd never do that, of course, not even if I were cold-blooded

enough," she said steadily, quelling a sudden clamour in her veins.
"You cast off your own son when he opposed your will; you'd be
just as likely to do the same to a grandson."

"It doesn't follow. When Ewart was young I was known as the
financial wizard of the City. I had thirty directorships and was
financial adviser to some of the biggest companies in Britain. I had
no time for my wife, poor soul, or for Ewart. He had his first car at
sixteen and drove without a licence. At twenty he was racing and
winning trophies. I was half angry with him and half proud. I
never had time to be his father." A pause, while he sipped the
lemon tea. "Things are different now. I'm more or less retired, and
I can give plenty of time to my grandson. I want him to grow up
tough and self-assured; I want him to be a man who'll make his
mark on the world."

"And I want him to grow up happy," said Catherine, "That's all."

He grimaced. '"What's happiness? A bit of education, some

piffling job, a wife and three children? That's your idea, but it's not
mine. Happiness is using your brain to its utmost, making people
respect you and need you, getting into a position where your
opinion is the last word in some sphere or other."

"Power, in fact," she commented. "I don't look too far ahead for
Timothy. A sound education and all the love he needs - they'll get
him through."

"Pah! The boy is a reflection of your silly, womanish ideas. He

even looks like you!"

Catherine set down her cup with a tiny crash. "And why shouldn't
he? I'm always told he's a fine-looking boy!"

"He's too fine-looking, but he has the beginnings of the one. When
he's hardened off..."

"He's just four years old!"

"... and when he's lost that dopey look'

"We've had a tiring trip from London!"

"Well, that might account for it, but he's certainly too old to cuddle
a toy wherever he goes. He ought to be climbing trees and
breaking windows."

"I'll get him to break one of these, first thing tomorrow morning!"

"Not you. You look very capable at this moment of smashing the
whole lot of them yourself, but you'll take care that little Timothy
shows respect for the place. Timothy!" with scathing emphasis.
"Who gave him that name?"

She stood up quickly. "You're impossible. If you've no intention of

co-operating with me, why did you bring me here?"
"Because at his age you're probably necessary to the boy, and
because you happen to be my daughter-in-law, whether we like it
or not. Sit down again."

"I'd rather not."

"Then I'll have to stand up, I suppose," he growled, "and I do hate

dramatics. I didn't invite you here to row with you, but you'll have
to realise from the start that I'm not some mealy-mouthed old has-
been who's drooling at the thought of having a daughter of his own
at last. I don't want a daughter. I only want a son - a real son, not a
polite little boy with clean knees and curls! And remember this. By
law, I've as much right to educate and take care of him as you
have."

"The law's an ass - but I'm not. It more or less forced me to bring
Timothy here, but it can't force me to change my ideas of how to
look after him. My own father died some time ago, so you're the
only grandfather he has. For Timothy's sake I was rather glad to
come here, because I felt he needed someone to look up to, but if
you're going to make his life wretched by demanding too much of
him, I'll have to do something about it."

"You just remember that you're not so important in the world as

Leon Verender," he said impatiently. "And you'd better reconsider
those ideas of yours. I won't have a grandson of mine grow up half
afraid of life. There's nothing more pitiful than a boy tied to his
mother's apron-strings."

"I'm not possessive," she said firmly. "You're judging Timothy on

the two minutes he spent in here with you. He's just like any other
little boy of four who's had to live in a flat without brothers or
sisters. He's had little friends, but..."
"Just like himself, no doubt. A lot of good they'd do him! Here,
he's going to run wild. He's going to learn to ride and sail a boat.
He's going out on the yacht, and if he's seasick he'll darned well go
out again, till he's mastered it. That's the way I grew up, and it got
me all I wanted."

Catherine drew a deep quivering breath. "I suppose you were

bound to have it in for the woman Ewart married without your
consent; that's natural in a man like you and I don't mind it. But
don't think you can turn Timothy into a bone of contention. He has
a sunny disposition and he's sensitive; I won't have him
deliberately hurt."

"And I won't have him coddled," said Leon Verender. "You're here
as a member of the family; there's a place for you if you care to
take it. The boy is half yours and half mine. You make a good job
of your part and leave my part to me."

"It isn't possible to divide his life. You must know that."

"We'll see." He struck a bell. "You'll want to unpack and

familiarise yourself with the house. You'll have your own maid
and your own car. You can open accounts at the fashion houses in
Nice - all the big people are represented there - and you can
entertain your friends here whenever you wish. I consider both you
and Timothy my responsibility." The door opened and he said,
"Antoine, call one of the maids and tell her to show my daughter-
in-law to her suite. Come down to this room at seven, Catherine.
We dine at a quarter to eight."

He was gone, and Catherine was left trembling a little and more
angry than she had been for a long time. Somehow, she smiled at
the maid who appeared, and followed her from the room. They
crossed the corridor with the three archways to the hall on the right
and mounted a wide marble staircase Which led up to a large
carpeted upper hall.

"This way, madame," said the maid, as she turned along a spacious
passage that was panelled in the same silver-grey as the hall.
"Monsieur instructed us to prepare this suite at the end. It is the
most private."

"Thank you."

Catherine entered a vast bedroom and paused, while the maid

discreetly moved ahead, towards the case she had been unpacking.
Uncertainly, Catherine looked about her. The whole suite was as
huge and beautifully furnished as the bridal suite in the most
luxurious hotel. Leon Verender must be more fabulously rich than
even Ewart had realised.

"Where is the little boy?" Catherine asked.

The maid, an apple-cheeked woman of about thirty-five, smiled

cheerfully. "His rooms are in the other corridor, madame. You
wish me to show you?"

"Please."

Timothy was almost the whole house away, in rooms as large as

Catherine's but furnished in mahogany and flowered linen. As
Catherine entered the room Michael Dean levered himself up from
the floor and sighed in his relief.

"I've been wondering about you. How did you get on?"

"I'm still whole." She looked through into the other room, where
modern furniture and bookshelves were being inspected by a
sleepy Timothy. Quietly, she asked, "Did Mr. Verender make a
point of placing us far apart?"

"I don't know. Thought it a bit rum myself. He had these rooms
refurnished especially for the youngster."

"Who sleeps next door?"

"No one. They're guest rooms, both sides."

She hesitated, made a decision. "Your French is better than mine.

Will you go along to the maid in my room and ask her to bring my
things to the room next door? And don't say anything to Mr.
Verender. I'll tell him myself."

"I'll say you will - I'm not chasing disaster! And take my tip. Let
him have his own way for a bit."

She smiled faintly. "You're afraid of him, and that's his trouble -
too many people have been afraid of him. Gosh, I'm tired. Did you
give Timothy some tea?"

"He didn't eat much."

"Good. I'll have his supper served up here. Can you do that for me,
too? Order a three-and-a-half-minute egg, bread and butter, an
apple and a glass of cold milk ... for a quarter to six. Thanks, Mr
Dean."

'"You'd better make it Michael. Looks as though you're going to

need me, and I only do favours for people who call me Michael."
He gave his pleasant grin. "Well, so long. Shan't see you again till
tomorrow."

"Don't you live here?"

"Not in the house. There are a couple of guest cottages up the
garden and I have one of them. I knock off at five and come on
duty again at eight-thirty."

"Sorry to have kept you over time. Thanks for looking after
Timothy."

Alone in the suite with Timothy, Catherine relaxed slightly. She

looked into the wardrobe and cupboard, saw that the child's things
had been unpacked and neatly put away. The suitcases had been
removed, the bed-cover folded and placed on a chair and a small
suit of pyjamas laid on the pillow. Thankfully, she drew a bath and
got him into it. He was so bemused by the yellow and turquoise
bathroom that he forgot his floating toys, which was just as well.
Catherine towelled his slim little body, laid her cheek for an
instant against the silky skin of his shoulder before letting him put
on his pyjamas himself.

"Are we really going to live here?" he asked.

"Yes, and you're going to love it. Tomorrow I'll take you down to
look at the sea."

"And play on the beach?"

"Mmmm, and paddle your toes. You'll get lovely and brown and
you'll learn to swim."

"I don't want to swim."

"All right, my pet. You can sit on the beach while Mummy
swims."

That wasn't right, either, but Timothy's frown soon disappeared.

He couldn't bother with tomorrow yet. His supper arrived and he
did fairly well. Then she told him his favourite story till he slipped
down on to the pillow with his eyes closed.

"You haven't said your prayers," she whispered.

Timothy didn't hear. She bent and kissed his forehead, gazed down
for a moment at the soft light shining over the golden aureole of
his hair, switched off the lamp and went quietly from the room,
leaving the door open about six inches.

The room to the right of Timothy's, she found had been quickly
prepared for her, and the maid was still there, hanging away the
last of Catherine's clothes.

"I'm sorry to have given you all this trouble," she said.

"It's only because it's my first day."

"It's no trouble, I assure you, madame. Madame Brulard, the

housekeeper - she told Monsieur that you would wish to sleep
close to the little one, but Monsieur," an expressive shrug, "he has
his way. But not for long, it seems!"

"Perhaps he doesn't know much about children. What do I call

you?"

"Louise. If madame wishes for anything the bell near the bed will
call me. Shall I fill the bath?"

"No, I'll do it, thanks."

Louise went off, and Catherine took off her Jacket and ran her
fingers over the neat fold of hair at the back of her head. She felt
worn, and no wonder. She had known this would be a difficult day
and had prepared herself for it, but the trouble was her conception
of the situation had been rather different from the reality it had
turned out to be. She had seen photographs of Leon Verender,
most of them the image of a magnate who smiled diplomatically at
business conferences, and her mind had created the man behind the
smile. Hard, egotistical, successful and something of a cynic -
which he was. What she hadn't bargained for was utter ruthlessness
in his private life.

A good many men had cast off their sons and been sorry about it
afterwards; but not Leon Verender. Everything he did was right,
for ever. She would probably never know whether his sorrow over
Ewart's death had been deep and painful. What she did know was
that the knowledge of Timothy's existence and his own role as the
child's guardian had set him a new ambition. He'd done everything,
except rear a son. And that was an omission his own particular
providence was about to put right. So he thought.

Legally, she couldn't fight the man; in any case, one would have to
be driven to desperation before dragging one's own child through
the courts. Which left the matter clear-cut; somehow she had to
find a basis of co-operation with the old ramrod.

Catherine took a long time over her bath and getting into a
primrose cotton dress, and while she soaped and dried and
powdered and dressed she thought only lightly about the problem.
It was as she made up her face and looked into her own wide eyes
that she knew again the impact of loneliness, the sudden realisation
that Timothy had no one's love but her own, and that she had no
one to whom she could turn for advice and encouragement. Here,
with Ewart's father, she was more alone than she had been in
London, looking after Timothy and filling in at the nursery school.
She had had plans; she would teach full-time as soon as Timothy
was five and could attend the same school. Mr. Verender's money,
if he continued to be generous, could be set aside for Timothy's
education. And his godfather, Hugh Manning, would eventually
have been free to guide Timothy as only a man could; it was too
bad that Hugh had been transferred to the Far East.

Still, there was no getting away from Ewart's wish that his father
should be a guardian of the child. She understood how he had felt,
poor sweet; despising himself for breaking his promise and
returning to the track, apprehensive that he might have lost his
touch, and determined that Leon Verender should be financially
responsible, at least, if the worst happened. Being Ewart, he had no
doubt patted himself on the back for such selfless thinking, and
gained a terrific fillip from the thought that nothing bad ever
happened to the lucky Verenders.

She paused, lipstick in hand, and thought of the early days of her
marriage which had been so gay and carefree. Then Timothy, and
a subtle change in the atmosphere. Less laughter, less of Ewart
because he'd travelled alone to watch and report on sporting
events; and less money. When he had returned to motor-racing
Catherine had felt that nothing worse could happen to her. And
then he was gone, and she had had to face the stark fact of never
seeing him again, of Timothy's increasing helplessness without a
father. For two months she had felt crippled, and fought against it.
Then the battle of letters with the lawyer had begun, and her spirit
had revived. Who did he think he was this Leon Verender?

Well, that was something she now knew. He thought himself a

monarch among men, and had decided to mould his grandson after
his own likeness. Catherine's eyes flashed in the mirror. Over my
dead body, she decided flatly.

But it was a calm and poised young woman who went downstairs
at seven-twenty. It was dusk, and the several lamps in the hall lent
a soft radiance to the gleaming surfaces of tables and tiles. She
hesitated in an archway, to recall where the small salon lay, and at
that moment the main door opened and a man came in.

That's odd, she thought. I've now met him on both sides of the
door and we've never even been introduced.

He was in a dinner jacket now, had come in as though he were

very familiar with the house, and turned to cross the hall. Turned
and lifted his head from its thoughtful slant, and seen her outlined
by soft light in the archway. Slender in the primrose yellow, the
light reddish hair immaculate, her hands together in front of her as
she debated whether the door were in the hall or the corridor.

He bowed. "Good evening. I believe you are the belle-fille of

Monsieur Verender. I am Philippe Sellier."

"A doctor, so I was told by Mr. Dean."

"That is so. I am enchanted to know you, madame." He sounded

formal, almost absentminded, but as she came nearer he gave her
the Frenchman's comprehensive glance. "May I escort you to the
salon?"

"I wish you would. I had tea there, but I can't remember where it
is."

His smile showed the edge of white teeth. "Yet I would say that
your memory is normally sound -1 judge merely by the intelligent
eyes. Perhaps you were under some emotional stress this
afternoon?"

"I did get a little heated." As they began to move she gave him a
quick sideways look. "Are you a friend of Mr. Verender?"

"Yes, I have known Leon for some years."

"You've probably heard about Timothy and me, then."

"Yes, I have heard."

He didn't give much away, this Frenchman, but She had the uneasy
conviction that he had already weighed her up and formed a
conclusion. She estimated him to be thirty- seven or eight and
wondered if he was married. There wasn't time to go further than
that before he had opened a door and led her into the small salon.

Leon Verender was already there, with a whisky glass in one hand
and a company prospectus in the other. He dropped the prospectus
on to the table, gave Catherine a brief glance from tinder the heavy
brows.

"I told you seven o'clock, young woman."

"Yes, I know," she said equably, and no more.

"You two have met, I see. What do you drink?"

"May I have a dry sherry, please?"

"Your usual, Philippe? Hope you didn't have to put off someone
else to come here this evening."

His shoulders lifted. "I was asked to join some people at the
Casino, but there was no definite invitation. I was most happy to
come here, though I cannot stay late, I am sorry to say."

"Well, never mind. We three shall be alone for dinner, but there'll
be others here for bridge later on. Do you play bridge, Catherine?"

"No, Mr. Verender."

"You'd better learn. Everyone here plays bridge."

"It doesn't attract me very much, but I don't mind trying."

"That's generous of you! That's how young people are today,

Philippe. They please themselves over everything, and when
they're willing to try something sensible it's only to keep the peace.
Drink all right?"

"Perfect, mon ami." He took another pull at it, leaned back in his
chair and smiled. "You have a very lovely daughter-in-law, Leon. I
congratulate you."

"She's not so lovely in a tantrum. Anger is out of place in a woman

- it makes her ugly."

"Some women," the doctor agreed. "Not, I think, the woman of

Dresden features and camellia skin. However, you have seen the
anger of Madame your daughter-in-law, and I have not. Nor wish
to invoke it," he ended, with a slight bow towards Catherine.

"Madame my daughter-in-law fiddlesticks!" Leon Verender waved

his cigar. "For better or worse she belongs here now, and she's
Catherine to everyone but the servants. You'll be her doctor,
Philippe - not that she looks as if she needs one - but she'll
probably have you hopping after the child at least once a week.
Wait till you see that boy!"

The doctor said pleasantly, "I glimpsed the child this afternoon. He
looks well."

"He looks a mother's pet. He carries a toy animal that she probably
washes and disinfects every night."
"What did you play with when you were four?" Catherine asked
mildly. "Balance sheets?"

Philippe Sellier smiled and lifted a pacifying hand. "It is normal

for a child to make a certain toy his constant companion, Leon.
When the time comes he will break his own childish habits. If I
may say so, madame, you look far too young to be the mother of
such a boy."

"I'm twenty-six, and feel every day of it."

"You'll marry again," said the older man bluntly. "Unless you find
it such a soft billet here that single life will suit you better." A
gleam in the keen blue eyes. "How do you like your suite?"

"It's a very beautiful suite," she said evenly, "but I'm afraid I've
moved out into a guest room next to Timothy's."

"You've what!" He turned furiously towards the doctor. "You hear

that? The best suite in the house isn't good enough for her. She
walks out and selects a suite of her own!"

Catherine's fingers were tight about her glass. "Please try to

understand, Mr. Verender. Timothy hasn't been used to ,.

"And stop calling me Mr. Verender!" Leon's fist came down with a
thud on the arm of his chair. "Anyone would think you still regard
yourself as Catherine Harvey, or whatever you were before
marriage. You have the same name as I, and I'm not going to have
you treat me in my own house as if it's a name you're not proud
of."

"What else can I call you?"

The doctor intervened, smoothly. "Why not the French Papa? It is
different from the English. You do not care for it?"

"This is my first day here," said Catherine. 'Tm afraid Papa would
stick in my throat a little."

"You'll call me Leon, like everyone else," stated the older man.
"And tomorrow you'll go back to the suite I chose for you."

"Very well. So long as you move Timothy into the room next
door."

"He'll stay where he is."

Catherine's drink was tipping perilously; she had to set it down on

a chairside table before she spoke. "I don't think you understand
how things have been with Timothy and me. We had a very small
flat, and his bedroom was hardly more than a cubby-hole next to
mine. He's been used to knowing I'm right next door. He doesn't
often wake up, but if he wanted anything in the night he had only
to call out..."

"And you rushed to get it for him!"

"Not always. Sometimes I'd tell him to turn on his side and go to
sleep, and that's what he'd do. Here, he has a very large room in a
strange house, which is enough of a change for the moment."

"That is true, you know, Leon," said the doctor reasoningly.

"These changes you intend to make in the child's life cannot be
sudden. For the present it is enough that he get to know the house
and garden, and perhaps the beach. And yourself, of course."

The older man frowned, but there for a while the matter rested.
They went into a large, beautifully appointed dining- room, ate
hors d'oeuvres, chicken patties, escalopes of veal and salad with
Brie and fruit to follow, and drank an excellent wine.

Leon Verender obviously enjoyed his way of living. He liked good

food well served, though not much of it, fine wines, good
conversation. He and the doctor had much more in common than
Catherine would have thought. Both were connoisseurs of objets
d'art and curios from far places; both revelled in the history of the
Pontrieux district and were keen critics of the arts practised on the
Cote d'Azur. Philippe Sellier was probably a good doctor too,
thought Catherine. Not married, it seemed, and he gave the
impression of enjoying his bachelor state. He was expert at
keeping women just beyond the barrier; no doubt about that. He'd
probably perfected that cool, courteous, clinical manner for
feminine bedsides and you couldn't blame him even if it was a bit
irksome when served up to a perfect stranger who had no intention
of becoming his patient.

After coffee in the salon, Catherine asked if the men would excuse
her; she had had a long day. The older man nodded and the doctor
rose to open the door for her. She went along the corridor,
meaning to go up to her room, but as she passed that splendid
arched opening into the hall she had to glance through, and she
saw that the door stood open, with the night beyond. On an
impulse, she went out on to the terrace and walked some yards in
its dimness before halting to stare out across the patio into the
starlit garden.

The air was strange; warm and soft, scented with magnolia and
alive with the shrill ticking of small insects. The stars were
brilliant against a black velvet sky and she fancied she could hear
surf whispering lazily over a distant beach. Arriving this afternoon
in the sunshine, she had noticed so little that now the whole place
was dark and lush and alien, with a peculiar magic of its own. Cote
d'Azur ... she had thought of it as beautiful, sophisticated and
overdone. No doubt it was. But here at the magnificent Villa
Chaussy she would come to know the inside life of it all, the
marrow-filled backbone as it were, of the most opulent and
luscious stretch of the Mediterranean coast.

A car came up the drive, and instinctively Catherine drew back, so

that its beams could not pick her out. It braked, and two men and a
woman got out and came towards the house. At the same moment
Dr. Sellier appeared on the terrace.

"Not leaving, are you?" said an oldish, English voice. "I wanted to
see you about that shoulder of mine, Philippe."

"Tomorrow, my friend - unless you are in pain?"

"No more than usual."

Then Dr. Sellier bent over the woman's hand. "Lucille! How good
to see you back. Leon has been missing you this week, I think. Go
in. I will meet you all tomorrow."

The three guests disappeared into the house. Philippe Sellier was
about to descend the steps when the primrose dress caught his
glance and he drew back. Unhesitatingly, he came along the
terrace, and he spoke as he reached her.

"You were not tired, after all? Bored, perhaps?"

"No. I did mean to go to bed, but the night looked inviting through
the front door. This ... this feeling in the air is very strange to me."

"I have heard others from England say the same; you will become
accustomed to it. I hope you will settle happily at the Villa
Chaussy."
"I hope so too." She looked up at him, briefly. "I have to thank you
for smoothing things a little before dinner, though I did have the
feeling that you weren't really on my side. You probably helped
because Fm a stranger and a woman, but I'm grateful just the
same."

"As you say, I am not on your side. Pas du tout. I have known and
respected Leon for several years, and can see no reason why your
coming here should upset him."

"Are you reproving me, monsieur?"

"Perhaps." He gave her a sharp whimsical smile. "You are young

and Leon is well over sixty. No doubt you despise a man who
neglects his family, but taking the long view, what is neglect of a
wife and son compared with the industries which have grown big
and prosperous through his knowledge, the employment of
thousands more workers? Wise statesmen, industrialists, financiers
- it is a price they are forced to pay, this neglect of the family."

"I accepted that. I'm only concerned with the present." She gave
him another fleeting glance. "Did you really prefer to come here,
rather than go to the Casino?"

The practised, aloof smile did not alter. "It happened that I was in
no mood for the Casino."

"And you have a late call to make?"

"No. My sister has friends with her who will leave at eleven. She
does not care to be alone in the house so late." He paused.
"Perhaps when you are more used to Pontrieux you will call and
have tea with my sister. Yvette goes out seldom, but she has a
lively interest in English literature, and other things."
"Is she ailing in some way?"

"No," he said abruptly.

She thought he would give a stiff bow and depart, but though he
seemed on the point of it, he remained there, looking out at the
dark shapes of shrubs and trees.

"What do you hope for yourself from these new circumstances into
which you are now plunged?" he queried. "Once you are adapted
to this household what then?"

"I haven't thought about it deeply yet. Timothy's childhood is

much more important."

"I disagree - your future is as important as the child's. You did not
contradict Leon when he said you would marry again."

She smiled. "I shall save my contradiction for the more vital
moments. If I appear to disagree with Mr. Verender on only one
subject my opinion should carry more weight, Don't you think so?"

"You are wiser than most young women of your age, but also, I
think, a little more foolishly brave." He allowed fully thirty
seconds to elapse before ending, coolly, "You will certainly find
admirers here, but you would do well to use discretion when
choosing an escort."

She gave a small English shrug. "I didn't come here for social life,
monsieur, but thank you for the advice."

The hint of mockery slipped back into his voice. "It was my
pleasure - one which no doubt will be repeated, for I am afraid
there is a little rashness alongside the strength in your character.
You are tired and should have been in your bed an hour ago. I wish
you bonne nuit."

It was not until after Catherine had peeped in at the sleeping

Timothy and closed herself into her own bedroom that she realised
how lamb like had been her obedience to Philippe Sellier. He had
walked her firmly to the door, bowed and watched her cross the
hall before going to his car and driving away.

She undressed, made sure her windows were wide open, slid
between the yielding coolness of the sheets and switched off the
bed-light. Darkness did not shut out the strange atmosphere; in
some ways it became exaggerated. Night insects and perfumes, the
sound of a car climbing the gradient beyond the gates, that distant
murmur which she thought was the sea.

This was her home now, and she must try to fit into it. Leon
Verender, that strong, antagonistic figure who had stood in the
background of her life for five years, had now become a main part
of her universe. Somehow she had to stand between his ambition
for Timothy and the cheerful, unsuspecting little boy she loved
more than anyone in the world. It was going to be hazardous;
Catherine was sure of that.

Michael Dean would not be able to help her very much. He was
easy-going, fond of good times and admittedly scared of his
employer. One could talk to him, get information from him, but to
lean upon he'd be a bending reed.

And Philippe Sellier? Well, he was French, and therefore to an

English woman a little unpredictable. In any case, there was that
shatterproof glass wall he had erected between himself and
women; it had existed for a long time, she felt, because he was a
doctor and aware, to some degree, of his own charm. A predatory
woman would be nowhere at all with Dr Sellier; a shy one would
remain for ever misted.

In the darkness, Catherine's fingers moved over her cheek,

Dresden features and camellia skin, he'd said, rather matter-of-
factly, adding that he had no wish to see her angry. She had a
feeling that he was half friend, half enemy.

Catherine slipped her hand under the back of her head and, smiling
vexedly, composed herself for sleep.
CHAPTER TWO

FOR more than a week life at the Villa Chaussy was calm and
quiet. Catherine felt she had armed herself against something that
wasn't going to happen after all, for Leon Verender, when she saw
him each night at dinner, was polite and preoccupied, and only
once, when she and Timothy met him on the staircase, did he
speak to the little boy.

"How are you liking it here?" he'd demanded, without preamble.

Timothy had given him the big blue stare. "It's nice," he'd
answered artlessly. "I've been paddling every day and this morning
I caught a shrimp. I'll show it to you if you like."

"One of these days you'll dive deep and find an octopus. When you
do, I'd like to see it."

"Octopuses are awful big."

"You'll be big yourself when it happens. Can you swim yet?"

"Mummy's teaching me. I can do one stroke."

Leon Verender did not smile. "When she's got you used to the
water we'll have a man on the job. He'll get you swimming in no
time. Where are you going now?"

"Upstairs for my rest."

"A rest - at one-fifteen?"

Catherine, who had purposely kept silent, now put in smoothly,

"Timothy's had an energetic morning and just eaten his lunch.
After he's rested for an hour he'll play outdoors."
Leon Verender had not answered this. He had directed a long,
comprehensive glance at Timothy, apparently decided that the
small boy in khaki shorts and white open-necked shirt was a very
slight improvement on the neat child who had arrived from
England, and left it at that. He had passed on down the stairs.

For Catherine, those first eight or nine days at Pontrieux were the
laziest she had ever known. Each morning she took Timothy, by a
charming cliff path that wound downwards among bushy palms
and dwarf cedars, aloes and cacti, to the long stretch of beach that
was held in a rocky cup, where inlets and caves permitted shelter
from the heat of the sun, They bathed, made sand castles and
stretched themselves out happily side by side and told each other
stories. Timothy's stories had scrappy beginnings and no ends, and
it was rarely that he bothered to remember more than a few words
as he went along. His "hero" was always a dog or a cat, which
showed that he'd love to have one of either for a pet. Pets hadn't
been allowed at the flat, and Catherine doubted whether Leon
Verender would take kindly to having a dog in his treasurehouse.

In the afternoons Timothy played in the garden while Catherine

strolled there or sat with some sewing. At four- thirty tea would be
carried out to her, and for half an hour Catherine would wallow in
a kind of guilty pleasure. During those days she could imagine
nothing more enjoyable than sitting alone under a tree, reading a
little, drinking two cups of tea and eating a couple of featherlight
fancies, while Timothy downed a glass of milk and a cake and
played on the grass with the teddy-bear, Beanie.

Some time soon she must do what she could about companions for
Timothy, and work out a few simple lessons too. But not till she
had been here for two weeks. This was a holiday she'd needed, her
first since those rather unreal six days of honeymoon. There had
been happy times, but no holidays lasting longer than a week-end;
the money hadn't run to it. Then, she had felt it all very keenly for
Timothy's sake, but none of it seemed to matter very much now.
He had a honey-coloured tan that looked well with the thick fair
hair, and already his first fear of the vast expanse of the
Mediterranean had dissolved in a desire to splash in the warm
buoyant water. The grounds of the Villa Chaussy had also become
more familiar to Timothy than they were to the owner of the place
himself.

Actually, Catherine's peace did not quite last out the hoped-for two
weeks. There came a day when the business meetings were over,
the various directors dispersed to their homes in Paris, Amsterdam,
Berne and Madrid. Leon Verender was free for a while, Michael
Dean could catch up on his sleep and Madame Brulard, the plump
and majestic housekeeper, could leave the kitchen entirely to the
cook, who knew Leon's wants too well to need supervision.

On that day, Timothy had just gone down for his afternoon nap
when the maid, Louise, came to Catherine's bedroom.

"Madame is requested to have lunch with Monsieur and his

guests," she said, and diplomatically added, "Monsieur said I must
tell you they will have lunch at exactly one- thirty."

"But I've had all the lunch I want, Louise," Catherine protested. "I
couldn't eat another. Will you tell Monsieur..."

There was one thing the whole staff of the Villa Chaussy had in
common - a strong reluctance to irritate their employer.

"It would be best," said Louise, as though she were not

interrupting, "if Madame were to go down and explain herself.
Monsieur will no doubt understand." Knowing damned well that
Monsieur never understood anything but his own viewpoint and
desires.
Catherine smiled and lifted her shoulders, "All right. I'll do that.
Do I know the guests?"

"They are Monsieur le Docteur and Madame d'Esperez.''

"A woman at last! I'm glad."

The apple-cheeked Louise retreated to the doorway and said

discreetly, "Madame d'Esperez is known to be most beautiful and
best-dressed woman on the Cote d'Azur."

"Meaning I'd better change? Thank you for the tip, Louise. I shan't
need any help, thanks."

Catherine slipped out of the flowered cotton, washed quickly and

put on a slim-fitting white dress. She made up a little, snapped a
small jade ivy-leaf on to each ear-lobe, slipped on high-heeled
white shoes and went downstairs. She had wondered a few times
about Dr. Sellier; she'd had the odd conviction that something
unfinished lay between them, but couldn't for the life of her think
what it might be.

But when she entered the small salon Leon Verender and a very
smart woman in navy and pink were there alone. The woman was
dark, her hair a smooth waved cap which was surmounted by a
small hat of pastel pink feathers. Her face, olive-skinned with a
clever pink tone over the cheekbones, was a long heart shape. The
nose, architecturally Grecian, was the more perfect for the long
pointed chin and the slanted dark eyes and winged brows.
Catherine had never seen such a flawlessly sculptured face; it was
difficult not to stare.

"I've told you about Catherine, Lucille. She's one of the family
now. Catherine, this is Lucille d'Esperez. She's been wanting to
meet you, but this is the first day I've been free for it."
"How do you do, madame," murmured Catherine.

Lucille d'Esperez did not answer in the same words. "So you are
the daughter-in-law," she said in soft, foreign tones. "You and I
have something we share; we are widows. But that is where it
ends, I think!"

Even that one thing, Catherine thought, could hardly be called

something they had in common. Lucille d'Esperez could have been
any age from thirty to forty; she had the distinguished, suave look
of a woman who had moved among the princes and counts and
money-barons of the Riviera for so long that her previous life had
become entirely obscured and forgotten. Catherine was sure that
Monsieur d'Esperez had left no imprint upon this self-possessed,
narrow-eyed beauty.

"Would you like a drink?" asked Leon, in tones which conveyed

that Catherine was late and a drink would postpone lunch still
further.

"No, thank you." On the point of mentioning that she'd already

eaten, Catherine hesitated; she didn't know why. Instead she asked,
politely, "Do you live in Pontrieux, madame?"

"Unfortunately, no. I adore the whole district, but it has no hotels -

only small inns close to the bay. I live in a hotel at Nice." A sigh.
"Very expensive, but what else can one do?"

"But Nice is exciting, isn't it?"

"Mon dieu, but it can also be very dull... and even a little lonely."
A small rougish smile was directed towards Leon. "Particularly
when one's bel ami is engrossed day after day with business. I am
so glad you are free of that for a while, Leon!"
"I like it occasionally - keeps me on my toes." He looked at his
thin gold wristwatch. "Shall we go in to lunch?"

"But what of Philippe?"

"He said he might not get here till two, that we weren't to wait for
him."

"It is quite astonishing that he will lunch here at all,"

commented Lucille. "I have never before known him to break the
arrangement with his sister."

"Yvette is a leech," stated Leon. "A nice woman who made a

mistake some years ago and has been paying for it ever since.
Trouble is, she's managed to make Philippe pay for it too."

"I hardly think that," said Lucille. "If Philippe wanted a different
life Yvette would not be allowed to stand in the way of it. I would
say that it suits Philippe to live as he does. Yvette is as good a
housekeeper as a wife would be and her demands are easy to meet.
Philippe is mostly there for lunch, if his patients permit it, but for
the rest he is as free as a bachelor. Yvette's friends visit her
continually for tea or dinner." Lucille sent him the knowledgeable
smile. "When Philippe dines at home you may be sure Marcelle
Latour has been invited. That is the only match Yvette would
tolerate."

"Well, if Philippe likes her..." said Leon with a dismissive shrug.

"Let's go into the dining-room."

The luncheon table had been set near the french window, a
rectangular table with Leon at one short side and Lucille at the
other, while Catherine sat facing the garden with an empty chair
beside her. Perhaps it was fortunate that Leon Verender was not
himself very hungry, and that Lucille d'Esperez found this a
subject for comment. It allowed Catherine to murmur that she
wanted just a little salad, and to pick a morsel only when one of
them happened to be looking at her.

Lucille said, in a voice of mild worry, "Your appetite is not so

good now, Leon. I think you need a little change from this place -
to go somewhere simple, away from these many people you know.
Could you not manage that, mon cher?"

"I'm fine," he said gruffly. "You know I never eat much lunch. In
any case, I'd go mad in some small out-of-the-way place. I like
plenty of people round me."

"That is true. It is just that I am anxious for you."

Somehow Catherine couldn't see this woman being anxious over

anyone but herself; but perhaps it was polite among the French to
show concern about one's friends. Certainly Lucille d'Esperez was
all solicitude and smiling attention for Leon Verender.

Leon surprised Catherine with a sudden question. "Can the boy

swim yet?"

"No, but he'll come to it. He's very young."

"Ah, the child," remarked Lucille, laying down her fork and
turning an interested smile towards Catherine. "You are very lucky
to have a small son. Where is he now?"

"He's resting upstairs."

"I adore children." It seemed to be her favourite verb. "I must meet
this small Leon!"
"His name is Timothy."

Lucille gave a small, helpless peal of laughter, allowed her accent

to grow thicker. "Timossy! It is quaint, no? And you call him ...
quoi?"

"Just Timothy."

Catherine was fairly certain that the woman had already known
what Timothy was called; if Leon had told her of the child's arrival
at the Villa Chaussy he had no doubt also implied that he didn't
care for his name. Lucille d'Esperez was grinding her own little
gilt axe at anyone's expense.

"So his second name is Leon, is it not?"

"No," said Catherine firmly. "He's named after his father, Ewart."

Lucille raised expressive, pale, pink-tipped hands. "So the good

grandpere is forgotten? That is sad, I think."

Catherine might have retorted that the good grandpere had

deserved to be forgotten. But momentarily, her glance met Leon's
piercing blue stare and she let the comment pass. And the next
second Philippe Sellier strode into the room, smiling, apologetic
and shatteringly full of charm.

Standing behind Catherine, he bent over the hand Lucille gave

him. To Catherine he bowed slightly, before taking his seat beside
her.

"Continue your conversation, please. I must catch up with you."

"It was nothing," said Lucille. "How is your sister, Philippe?"

"Yvette is as healthy as ever," he said calmly, as he helped himself
to a steaming slice of sole and thanked the butler with a smile.
"And you, Lucille? I think you grow more beautiful each time I see
you. Is it not so, Leon?"

"It is. Sometimes she makes me feel old."

"Ah, no!" from Lucille, with a devastating look of entreaty. "You

are young - and the most interesting man on the coast. I talk with
many, but always in my mind I compare them with Leon, who is a
vigorous and most successful genius, I would sooner talk with you
than with any other man in the world!" The entreaty turned to a
smile as she switched to the doctor. "Pardon, Philippe! In the
social life you are like quicksilver. When one begins a
conversation with you it is never certain that one may have time to
end it."

"That is my misfortune," he said, breaking a crisp golden roll with

a small movement of the long, strong fingers. His tone altered a
little, and he turned his head slightly towards Catherine. "You are
well, madame?"

"Very well, thank you."

"'And the child?"

"He's fine. The sun and sea are doing him lots of good."

"In my opinion," declared Leon, "it's time the boy could swim. I
learned to swim in a cold English river before I was three."

"You were probably conditioned for it," said Catherine. "Timothy

isn't."
The older man's lower lip jutted, characteristically. "The pool in
the garden is warm and the boy's used to the place now. Dean can
take him there for a lesson every day."

"It isn't necessary. I'm quite a good swimmer and I can teach
Timothy myself, in the sea."

"You're bound to be squeamish and fearful about it, and fear is

easily communicated."

Catherine answered him in the mild tones she had schooled herself
to use. "I'm afraid you don't know women. I detest spiders,
thunderstorms and height, but you'll find that none of those things
makes the least impression on Timothy, simply because I've never
let him see my own fears. He'll swim, in good time."

"Everything of that kind comes easier if you do it while you're

young. I've got a pony picked out for him. It's being stabled at a
riding school, and you can drive him out for a lesson two or three
times a week. The riding master there is a crack horseman."

Catherine looked quickly at the masked smile of Lucille d'Esperez,

saw, from the corner of her eye, that Philippe Sellier had returned
his glass of wine to the table, untasted. Quite what they were
expecting of her Catherine didn't know. She was only aware of the
first stirring of anger that Leon should introduce this subject in
front of guests.

She lifted her head. "Riding lessons are out of the question, of
course. We can discuss it some other time."

A steely gleam had come into Leon's eyes, "There'll be no

discussion. That's my side of things, and I'll see that the
arrangement is carried out. If you won't drive him to the riding
school, young Dean can take him."
"Timothy's not going to the riding school," Catherine said, in flat
tones which disguised a tumult within. "If you insist on knowing
the reason right now..."

"No reason would be good enough. I rode a pony over the South
Downs when I was his age - did it every day!"

Catherine paled slightly, but answered in steady tones,- "You were

a phenomenon, and Timothy isn't. If you want the truth - he's
afraid of horses."

Leon Verender sat back in his chair and thrust one big fist on to
the table with a bang. His eyes were small and brilliant, his mouth
a distorted line. "Afraid of horses - a grandson of mine?" he said
harshly. "I don't believe it. You've frightened him - you and your
woman's cleverness in keeping your fears from him! How dare you
accept such a weakness in him..."

Philippe interposed, quite casually, "Shall we listen to Catherine's

explanation? I am sure there is one."

"Thank you, monsieur." Catherine hesitated. "I'm afraid there's not

much of an explanation. Before we came here Timothy knew only
the home life at the flat. To him, horses were hardly real - he never
saw any. I didn't discover that he was afraid of them till I took him
down to see my married brother in the country some months ago.
Timothy wasn't terrified of them, just scared because they were so
big. He'll get over it, but until he does there'll be no riding
lessons."

There was a brief silence. Then Leon Verender said heavily, "You
drive him out there each day - keep at it till he likes horses. I want
him riding before he's five!"
Catherine felt too shaken to answer this, and it was Lucille who
spoke next.

"I think you are right, Leon. A boy needs the outdoors and a man
who will guide him to become strong and fearless."

Philippe, having abandoned the watchful attitude, was now helping

himself to chicken and salad. "I am afraid, Leon, that you're in
danger of making the child more important than is good for him at
'his age. Also, there is the tendency to make him begin everything
at once, which is natural, but not up to your usual standard of
wisdom, mon vieux. I am sure you will agree, upon reflection, that
the enthusiasm should be directed towards one thing at a time. By
all means try, gradually, to familiarise the child with horses, but do
it casually. If he is able to swim before he is five he will have done
well."

Had any other man spoken those words Leon Verender would
have ignored them, but for Philippe Sellier the man felt not only a
warm regard but a profound respect, even when they were in
disagreement. The sharp blue glance rested a trifle vindictively
upon Catherine before it moved to the dark, half-smiling doctor,
who was unconcernedly making a good lunch.

"You have good judgment, Philippe, and you're the best doctor I
know. I want you to give the child a check-up and tell me what
he's capable of, physically. And you," swinging the glance back
towards Catherine, "had better co-operate. I'm as much the boy's
guardian as you are."

"That's one thing I'll never accept," she said, with her fingers on
the edge of the table. "Will you excuse me?"

Philippe turned abruptly towards her. "You cannot bear to wait till
the guests have finished their lunch?" he demanded.
Imperceptibly, her tongue ran along the inside of her lips, to
moisten them. "I'm sorry. I thought it would be better if I left you
to enjoy it."

"Soyez tranquille. Drink your wine." He turned from her and spoke
to Leon. "This morning I met an old friend of yours at the hospital
in Nice. He is living now at Menton, and gave me his card to pass
on to you. Also, there were some visitors from Paris who knew
both you and Lucille; they sent warm wishes. I must remember the
names for you..."

Catherine heard the conversation continuing without being aware

of all that was said. She felt tightened up, and angry with all three
of them. The woman Lucille d'Esperez was obviously going to
lengths in order to please Leon Verender, and he was as stiff-
necked and commanding as on the day Catherine had arrived. As
for the doctor - what was she supposed to infer from his double-
track behaviour? One minute he was reasoning with Leon on her
behalf and the next he was giving her the aloof, caustic treatment.
He sat there now, about eighteen inches away from her, rinsing the
tips of his fingers in a silver bowl and drying them carelessly on
his napkin; for all the world as if he hadn't reprimanded her a few
minutes ago.

Lucille spoke to the manservant. "Antoine, we will have coffee

outside. Cognac for the messieurs and Benedictine for me. You
take liqueur, Catherine?"

"No, thank you."

Lucille put on an "I thought not" expression and led the way to the
wrought-iron upholstered chairs in the terrace. To Catherine's
relief, she was able to take the chair at the end, slightly to the left
of Lucille and removed by several feet from the men.
Away to the right Monsieur Brulard, the rather ancient husband of
the middle-aged housekeeper, was hobbling slowly round a
flower-bed and pointing out to a small thin gardener the
deficiencies in his gardening. Brulard was in charge outdoors, and
a wonderful job he made of it, but he was merciless towards his
underlings. Even with a cracked knee joint he was on the job,
planning and criticising and watching developments. Several times
Catherine had wondered whether Leon Verender knew how
tyrannically his head gardener ruled the eight acres of lawns and
trees and flower gardens; now she decided that he had probably
trained Brulard himself!

Lucille was saying, "Yes, one understands, my dear Philippe. You

are busy and must have this assistant. But however they may be
clever, these young men, they do not inspire confidence. Me, I
would refuse to consult a young doctor."

"This new partner of mine is not young," Philippe answered. "He

is as old as I, married, and has a child. But you are not one of my
patients, Lucille, so you will not have to meet him."

"You do not consider yourself young?" Lucille, adept at picking up

the titbit contained in any remark, smiled knowingly. "I think you
are a good age, Philippe. A man under thirty may be entertaining,
even a little tender and understanding - but he is never exciting!"

Philippe's shoulders lifted in an alien shrug, his mouth smiled

mockingly. "Please! I am out of practice in this art, while you are
for ever perfecting your skill." He consulted his watch. "I am
afraid I must leave at three-fifteen, Leon."

"What about coming for dinner tonight?"

"It is good of you, but I should be engaged at home. We are giving

a small party."
"C'est vrai?" Lucille looked sharp and eager. "You entertain so
seldom, you and Yvette. I know she has many friends, but I do not
remember you two entertaining together before."

"It has happened, occasionally. Tonight, Yvette wishes to make

some celebration for Marcelle Letour. Marcelle has had a piece of
sculpture accepted for an exhibition."

"So you, my poor Philippe, have to mix with the bohemians for an
evening!"

"They are the same as we are, au fond."

"And Marcelle will be there," murmured Lucille slyly.

"But of course," he answered, purposely misunderstanding her.

Then he bent forward slightly, and addressed Catherine. "I
promised my sister I would ask you to join her for tea this
afternoon. Would you care to leave with me?"

Startled, Catherine took a moment or two to adjust her thoughts.

"With Timothy?" she asked.

"I doubt whether the child would enjoy it, but if there is no one
you would care to trust with him ..."

"The maid will look after the boy," said Leon Verender flatly.
"That's part of her job. Good for him, too. You go with Philippe,
Catherine."

She began, "I'm not sure whether..."

But Philippe broke in this time, in his smoothest tones. "Leon,

there is one thing you will have to accept about this daughter-in-
law of yours. She is almost mature, and does not care to take
orders. It is the tone you use, my friend - not the words."

"I'm not pandering to her mood," growled Leon. "Take her with
you, Philippe, and on the way you might give her a lecture on the
rights of a male guardian."

Lucille gave a gentle laugh. "You are expecting too much, Leon.
Philippe may be invulnerable where women are concerned, but he
is not insensitive to his opportunities. He will not waste time on
lectures. And who knows, he may admire pale skin and red hair!"

Philippe smiled. "I shall have little time for lectures or anything
else. I'm due to join a colleague for consultation at a quarter to
four. I must leave you almost at once.'*

Catherine stood up. "I'll go and see Louise - it won't take long."

She walked quickly into the house, felt her head spinning slightly
and a strange nervous tension in her body. She found Louise in the
servants' sitting-room, gained her assurance that Timothy would be
looked after, and hurriedly washed her hands, touched up her face
and slicked her hair. When she returned to the terrace all three
were moving along towards the steps; there they passed and she
joined them. Philippe, looking tall and rather intriguing in his
immaculate grey suit, made his usual adieux. Fleetingly, Catherine
wondered how Lucille qualified for a touch of his lips on her wrist
while she herself received a spare nod. Not that she wanted the
flowery salute, she told herself swiftly; it would have made her
feel an idiot.

She got into the car, which was French and fairly new, Philippe
slipped in beside her and with a wave of his hand they turned on to
the drive and rolled down towards the gates. They swung out on to
the road and down the steep gradient towards the spires, turrets
and pink roofs of the town of Pontrieux.

"What do you think of our little town?" he asked.

"I've only seen it like this, at a distance," she answered, glad that
he had chosen a mundane subject for conversation. "It's beautifully
set, with the rocky headlands at each side and the Corniche
winding through it."

"All the towns on the various Corniches have personality. You will
get to know them very well. Have you driven here yet?"

"No, there's no hurry."

"You are not accustomed to driving on the right side of the road,
and at certain points the Corniches have dangerous bends. For your
first few drives it would be best to have a companion."

"I thought of that myself. I'll ask Michael Dean to go with me."

"Oh, yes. Dean." Philippe took a steep bend before adding the cool
query, "No doubt you find it helpful to have the young Englishman
in the house?"

"He did help the first day, but I've hardly seen him since. Oh, look!
Is that an old fortress?"

Philippe bent forward and looked up at the headland. "That is

Mont Ste. Agnes. The building was many things - a Roman fort, a
monastery and later, the castle of the Pontrieux family, which died
out a century ago. The town itself is founded on a Roman camp."
A pause. "I thought by now you would have become more friendly
with your father- in-law."
"I hoped it myself, but all he wants is his rights - not friendliness.
You'd think it would be enough for him to finance Timothy's
education. I'm sure that's what was intended."

"By his son - your husband?"

There was an odd little coldness in his voice, and Catherine had
the curious conviction that she ought to be careful; she must
remember that this man was really on Leon's side. So she spoke
casually. "Yes. You see, we never had much money, but Ewart
was keen that Timothy should be educated as he was himself. I
thought we'd save for it - take out an insurance policy, perhaps, but
... well, we hadn't got round to it when Ewart went back to motor-
racing. So, without my knowledge, he made a will. He'd nothing to
leave, but... but Timothy."

There was silence between them as they dipped down into the
narrow main street of the old town. The shops, Catherine decided,
could not have changed much during the last hundred years. They
were converted houses, some of them prettied up with paint, but
most of them dark and inconvenient but somehow characteristic of
the ageless background of Pontrieux. The tarmac road looked out
of place between those cobbled pavements and old shops, where
bakers and pharmacists, novelty-vendors, aproned cobblers and
hardware merchants, waited benignly with cheroot or coffee-cup in
hand for the thin flow of women with string bags who had not yet
done their day's shopping. The inn was a semi-basement bistro
with half a dozen shuttered windows overhead, but a few doors
from it a pension made a brave show of potted palms flanking a
brightly polished entrance hall. A delightful old hodge-podge of a
town which tried only half-heartedly to halt the touring motorist.
At the moment it was still drowsy from the lunch break.

"This marriage of yours," came Philippe's voice. "Was it happy?"

She kept her head turned from him. "Yes."

"I do not see how you could have been suited. You, and the kind of
man who was not content unless risking his life. I know he gave up
racing for your sake, but he was still that kind of man; you could
not alter that."

"We married because we were... in love."

"Of course," a little brusquely. "But was it always enough?"

"It could have been."

"Are you sure of that? Some day, as Leon has said, you will marry
again, and I will wager that the man you choose will not resemble
Ewart Verender in any way."

"I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind."

"So there is still some grief? I apologise."

He sounded a bit sharp about it, and she thought she had better
wait a minute before saying anything more. But there was one
thing she wanted to ask him, and after he had taken a left turn into
a narrow street which climbed towards a wider thoroughfare, she
said:

"When you came to my rescue at lunch-time you told Leon that I

was almost mature. Why almost?"

His smile, as he cast her a brief glance, was a little mocking, a

little tight. "A woman is mature when she has experienced
everything. Much has happened to you since you were twenty, but
you have not experienced everything."
"Oh." A vital pink glow came into her cheeks, but she asked in
guarded tones, "Where am I lacking?"

"As a woman?" A deep shrug. "You feel I know you well enough
to answer that?"

"You apparently know me well enough to doubt my maturity!"

"So?" He lifted a thick dark brow. "I had no wish to make you
angry. Perhaps I judged you merely on what I know of you. You
married young - a man who had no real depths. The man who has
no depths cannot pierce deeply into the life of another; therefore
there is much of love you cannot know. Each of us loves as our
character permits - no more and no less."

"And you, monsieur," she said quite calmly, though there was an
unusual sensation at the base of her throat. "Do you make it a
practice never to love at all?"

"Yes." He sounded crisp and cool. "Love is an inconvenient luxury

that I have so far managed to do without."

"Does that mean you have no intention of marrying - ever?"

"No, it does not."

And there, to Catherine's vexation, the discussion had to end. They

had turned on to a road which had villas on one side and a cliff
smothered with flowering bushes dropping away to the left.
Philippe drove between bougainvillaea- covered posts and curved
round a sweep of gravelled drive to pull up in front of a long and
very pretty house. Perhaps, was Catherine's second thought, the
Sellier house minus its climbing roses and trumpet flowers, its
magnificent couple of cedars of Lebanon, its old paved patio and
the very comfortable garden lounge furniture, might have been just
an ordinary pink coastal villa with curly green tiles. But someone,
many years ago, had used love and care in planning the
background, and now the busy doctor, Philippe, and his
problematical sister Yvette, had the benefit of that planning.

"It's very attractive," she said involuntarily.

"You think so?" Philippe gave his home a cursory glance, "It is not
nearly so magnificent as the Villa Chaussy and we have only one
acre of garden - which is as well. I have little time for the garden
and Yvette cares nothing at all for it. But I grant you, it is lovely.
My mother planted the cedars when she was married, forty years
ago."

"But they're tremendous!"

"On this coast, everything grows well. Come, I will find my sister
and leave you with her. It becomes late."

They went into a rather dim tiled hall and then into a large sitting-
room furnished in the French provincial style; very pleasing, with
its air of slight antique and great comfort. Philippe turned his head,
as though about to summon his sister, but at that moment she came
into the room behind them.

" 'Allo," she said in soft, oddly provocative tones. "I heard you
arrive."

Quite what she had expected in Philippe's sister, Catherine could

not have said. She had gathered that something had happened in
the woman's life to change her outlook, that she seldom left the
villa and was fond of entertaining her friends; perhaps she had
hazily imagined a sad, discontented woman who clung to her
brother because she had no one else, but beyond that it had been
difficult to conjecture. All Catherine was sure of at the moment
was that she had not expected Yvette Sellier to look as she did.

She was thin, might be about twenty-eight but looked younger. As

tall as Catherine, she appeared shorter, possibly because she had
the gamine look. No doubt from the age of fifteen onwards she had
looked like this - dark straight hair raggedly attractive about her
small pointed face, large dark eyes, almond-shaped and very
expressive, a wilful mouth and a neck that looked thin in spite of
the polo cut of the natural coloured knitted blouse which was
neatly paired with slim-cut black jeans. Set off by black pumps
and black socks, Yvette's figure looked about nineteen; her face
was five to ten years older.

"Ah, cherie," Philippe said. "I have brought Catherine Verender, as

you wished. My sister Yvette." And barely waiting for them to
greet each other: "I have to go now, but should return about five-
thirty, when I will drive Catherine back to the Villa Chaussy. Have
a good visit, you two."

He was gone, and Yvette Sellier was darting her bright dark glance
over Catherine.

"I am glad you came," she said. "I am always anxious to meet the
women Philippe knows socially. Shall we go outside?"

There was no need to answer this, for Yvette had already walked
towards the french windows and opened one of the doors.
Catherine went with her, followed her to the tree- shaded patio and
sank into one of the chairs. Yvette dropped into another, keeping
the low tiled table between them, and leaned forward to offer the
box of cigarettes which stood there. Catherine took a cigarette and
used the gnome-shaped lighter, and as she blew smoke she looked
at this woman who was the doctor's sister. And again she knew a
slight shock of amazement. Apart from the line of her nose and
something about the way her brows grew, Yvette was totally
unlike her brother. Perhaps it was the perpetual gleam in the eye,
the restless movements of thin fingers, the soft probing voice that
helped to set them far apart. Their natures must be completely
opposed to each other.

"So you are the rich Verender's daughter-in-law," said Yvette. "I
thought you would be older. Philippe says you have a small son."

"Yes, I have."

"Yet you're not as old as I." Without bending her head she looked
down at the tip of the cigarette she was holding, showing a
rounded eyelid and short thick lashes. "You are very good-
looking."

"You think that because I'm different. A few years ago I longed to
look as you do; one has these phases." Catherine had never felt so
awkward with another woman. "I seem to remember the doctor
mentioning that you're interested in English literature."

"I am interested in all the arts, but I like your English poets. We
have many English writers and artists living on the Cote d'Azur,
and most of them have been up here to see me at some time. I do
not myself go visiting very much."

"Do you write or paint?"

She gave a short laugh. "Oh, no. I am not even a dilettante. I

merely like the company of people who live, and sometimes
perish, by the arts. We have quite a colony between Pontrieux and
Nice." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "I asked Philippe about
you. He told me you taught children in England. It was clever of
you - a schoolteacher to marry a Verender."
It was a simple statement, apparently without malice or even
sarcasm, but Catherine felt a slight tenseness take possession of
her limbs. "No doubt your brother also told you that I'd never met
Mr. Leon Verender till I came to Pontrieux. If he hadn't been
appointed a co-guardian of my little boy I wouldn't have come here
at all."

"That attitude is too English. You have provided the old man with
a grandson; why should you not - what is the expression? - cash in
on it! Besides, there is the possibility that here on the Cote d'Azur
you may find a rich husband." Her lips thinned, but were smiling.
"I have heard it said in Nice that a true titian is snapped up at her
first public appearance."

"That may be so. I don't intend to make a public appearance in

Nice."

"You have the wrong character for your colouring." She laughed at
her own joke, rested a long, enigmatically smiling glance upon
Catherine, and added, "I suppose you have guessed why I wanted
to inspect you at close quarters? It was to make sure that you are
not Philippe's type. I have done it before when women guests have
been staying at houses he has to visit. It was nothing personal."

"I'm glad of that. And are you satisfied?"

"Vraiment! Philippe is too much a doctor to want a woman who

will be attractive to other men. And he is too much a man to marry
a woman who has given the best of herself to someone else before
meeting him. You excuse my frankness?"

"Of course." But Catherine's jaw had tightened. She tried a change
of subject. "This is an ideal spot. Old gardens can be the most
restful places in the world."
The other shrugged, and seemed to sink deeper into her chair. "The
son of our maid tends the garden and cuts all the flowers we need.
It is seldom that I even walk out there, across the grass."

"What do you find to do with yourself?"

The other's expression lost its pleasantness, but she didn't move.
"In the mornings I am lazy, and sometimes read. In the afternoons
I have people for tea and in the evenings for dinner. I am the
housekeeper here, but Martha knows our habits so well that I do
not have much to do." Another of those swift, large-eyed,
gleaming glances. "Have you heard anything about me?"

"Almost nothing."

"Not even from Lucille d'Esperez? Lucille knows all the gossip
here."

"She hasn't gossiped with me."

"She will tell you, some time - so I may as well tell you myself, the
truth. I was once engaged to be married."

There was not much Catherine could answer to such a bare

statement; in fact, she had never before been so lost for words with
anyone. Yvette's habit of making bald pronouncements and
watching their effect from under thick dark lashes was both
disconcerting and annoying.

"Yes, I was engaged," she said after a moment. "It was one of
those understood things. We grew up together, I was told we were
suited, he was told we were suited - so he proposed and we were
engaged. It lasted three years - that engagement, and when I was
twenty-two the marriage was arranged. And then, on the night
before the wedding, I knew I could not marry Armand. Imagine!
He a young lawyer, very correct, very stupid - spending one's
whole life with that face, those foolish mannerisms, that
pomposity! I could not do it."

"Good heavens." At last Catherine was jolted into a natural

rejoinder. "What happened?"

"My father was dead some years, but my mother, who wanted the
match, was very much alive - she had hysteria. It was Philippe
who managed it all. At first he tried to persuade me it was
ridiculous to change my mind - that it was just nerves. Then he
saw I was determined not to go through with it, that I found the
idea of marriage with Armand revolting and unthinkable. I told
him I wanted to marry for love, not for convenience. So he
smoothed everything, and I was free."

"And you haven't regretted it?"

"Never!"

The disclaimer came out too quickly, too emphatically. Yet

Catherine felt sure that Yvette Sellier had never loved the man she
had jilted. There was more to it. After all, it must have happened
six or seven years ago; by now, she should have recovered. But
she hadn't. A woman who stays close to her own home, clings to a
brother, entertains hordes of people and is able to confide in a
complete stranger, must be slightly neurotic, to say the least.
Catherine knew a compulsion to know more, but she also felt a
strong reluctance to become enbroiled with either of the Selliers.

"You were very brave," she said inadequately. "At that stage most
women would have gone through with it."

"I said I was ill, and remained in my room for two weeks. By that
time, Armand had accepted my decision."
"Your brother must have had a difficult time."

"Philippe? He is strong - he can manage anything. He was good to

me - no reproaches, no reminders, only a great gentleness. After
Maman died there were just the two of us, and perhaps there will
always be only the two of us. Only I think not."

Catherine did not query the final remark. Once more she could
find nothing at all to say, and it was with great relief that she saw
the middle-aged maid wheel out a tea trolley.

"You expect other guests for tea, mademoiselle?" the maid asked.

"No, Marthe. They will all be here this evening. That will leave
you free to prepare the buffet."

Yvette talked of this artist and that sculptor - names Catherine and
the rest of the world had never heard of. She had a light, feverish
way of speaking which some people might have found amusing.
She was probably exhilarating company at her own parties, and
she didn't look as if she were prone to fits of depression. Quite a
puzzle, Philippe's sister.

After the tea things had been wheeled away an important piece of
the puzzle slipped into place. Yvette, swinging her leg over the
arm of the chair, asked carelessly:

"Is it true that one's love for a small son is greater than the love for
the husband?"

Catherine hesitated. "No - they're different kinds of love."

"And if one detests one's husband?"

"I can't answer that one, I'm afraid."

"Because you have never detested anyone?.". Yvette gave the short
laugh, pressing her lips together so that the sound was muted. "I
have never really hated anyone," either. But, ma foi, I have been
near it! I did not even hate my fianc. He married someone else.
Did I tell you that?"

"No. No, you didn't."

"Oh, yes, he married - and I did not mind at all. She was second-
best and as stupid as he." The pause that followed seemed, to
Catherine, to pulse audibly. Then: "They have two children."

So that was it; the simplest, most poignant explanation in the

world. Catherine looked at the bright and almost serene little face
of Yvette Sellier, and she wondered how such an intelligent
creature could deceive herself into living a life she really found
quite false. The arty haircut, the well- tailored casual clothes, the
untidy posture; all spoke of a bohemianism assumed to hide
something else; something which Catherine now knew to be a
rather dreadful emptiness.

She felt compelled to ask, "Haven't you ever wanted to marry

anyone else?"

"No. I want no more lawyers, and I would certainly not tie my

future to that of an artist of any kind; I am of the sort to need a
home of my own. I have it here. In any case," offhandedly, "I am
too old now for marriage." She allowed no comment on this. "You
must tell me about England. I have not been there since I was
eighteen."

The topic carried them through the next half-hour, and shortly after
that Philippe drove up. He got out of the car and came across to
them, smiling a rather set smile and waving away the suggestion
that he might like some refreshment.
"You have enjoyed this afternoon?" he asked them both.

"Very much," said Catherine politely.

"I liked it," Yvette conceded. "She is different, this young Madame
Verender. She does not talk of herself, but one gains the
impression that she could tell much. Sometimes I wish I were
English; it would be good to sail through troubles as though they
did not exist."

"We don't have that, I assure you," Catherine said. "We may
pretend to, because it helps."

"It helps?" queried Philippe. "Surely it is better to share the

problems? Have you consulted no one at all in England about this
business of coming here to live at Pontrieux?"

"Not in England. A second cousin of mine, Hugh Manning, is

Timothy's godfather, and I'd have gone to him if it had been
possible. He's representing his firm in the Far East, so I could only
write to him."

Philippe's brows went together and his tones were slightly

metallic. "But could he appoint no one to guide you and take care
of you till the arrangement was made with Leon?"

Catherine smiled deprecatingly. "The fact is, Hugh takes his

relationship to Timothy rather seriously and I was afraid that if he
thought we needed a man he'd give up his job. He's a bit of
sobersides, really, but he'd do anything for us. So when I wrote to
him I told him I was staying with my brother, and that he mustn't
worry. Actually, we didn't stay long with my brother because
Mother lives with him, and his wife isn't..." She broke off, but
added, "I did what was best at the time, and I wrote to Hugh
several days ago, telling him that Timothy and I are now part of
Mr. Verender's household on the Cote d'Azur."

Philippe looked thoughtful, but made no further comment.

Catherine said it had been an enjoyable afternoon, but she must go
now. Yvette remained seated, looked at the other two as they stood
up.

"Philippe, you have not forgotten that you promised to call for
Marcelle at six?"

"Of course I have not forgotten. I will go there on my way back

from the Villa Chaussy."

"It has occurred to me that this Catherine might like to join our
party tonight."

"Thank you, but no," said Catherine quickly. "I have things I must
do."

But Yvette was looking with those provocative eyes at her brother.
"Persuade her, Philippe. Perhaps she will come if you ask."

"I think not," he said briefly. "We will leave you now. And Yvette
- no slacks this evening, please!"

She smiled poutingly. "You think I have already shocked your

Marcelle sufficiently? But she likes me and I like her. So do not
worry, mon grand frere. For you I will wear a dress. Au revoir,
Catherine. Come to see me again."

Yvette waved goodbye from her chair. To Catherine, as the car

moved away, the woman looked small and elfin and quite young.
CHAPTER THREE

FOR the first five minutes they drove without speaking, Catherine
was smarting a little from Philippe's obvious determination that
she should not attend Yvette's party. Had he mentioned that she
might feel out of place among the bohemian crowd she would have
minded less. But he had merely said a decisive, "I think not," and
that was the end of it. He had realised, of course, that as the only
man who knew Catherine Verender he would have to be her
official companion for the evening, and no doubt he had other
plans, Marcelle Latour, for instance.

Catherine didn't mind that. Why should she? She hadn't intended
to go to the party, anyway. It was merely that his abruptness had
made her wince a bit; it was unlike what she knew of him. Perhaps
he was regretting that she had entered his family circle; well, that
was one thing they might agree upon, because she wasn't too
happy about it either.

The little town was busy now. The shops were all wide open and
doing quite a trade, people strolled in the late golden sunshine and
a few tourists were climbing Mont Ste. Agnes for the sunset view
of the sea and the rocky coastline. Fishermen were putting out
from the beach and the usual retinue of boys hindered the
procedure and generally had a good time. Even though she felt
somewhat depressed, Catherine could feel the faint air of festivity
which seemed inseparable from this district as day was ending and
the scented, balmy evening approached.

Philippe said, at last, "I had no idea you had been so alone this last
year, in England. In France, a woman placed as you were would
have lived with her family, or very close to them, but it seems you
were in London while your mother lived with the married brother
in the country."
Catherine nodded. "My brother is a resident master at a big school
in Hampshire, and my mother seems to fit in there."

"And you did not?"

"Not really. My brother's wife is very correct." She smiled. "You'd

entirely approve of her. She does everything she should and a little
over."

"And you, of course, do everything your heart tells you - which is

always risky. I presume that this sister-in-law of yours did not
approve of Ewart Verender."

"It was rather more than that, I'm afraid. They started off disliking
each other - they were such completely different personalities, you
see - and eventually they could hardly meet without exchanging
insults. Ewart did it almost good- humouredly, because he didn't
care enough about people to get heated, but Diana ... well, she
simply doesn't possess a sense of humour, and the only remedy
was to keep them apart. When .,. when Ewart died, Diana was very
kind, but I couldn't possibly make my home there with them. There
wasn't room and I wasn't really wanted. I'd have felt stifled."

"But your mother?" he asked sharply.

She made a small gesture with her hands. "She's sweet, but she's
their kind - Bernard's and Diana's. I couldn't take her away from
them. I did have lots of friends in London, and if I could have
taken a job where Timothy..."

She stopped, and let a shrug complete the sentence, and for a
minute or two they went on in silence. They were on the road up to
the villa when he said formally:
"At Leon's request I have made an appointment for the child. My
usual consulting hours are from eleven till lunch- time, but
tomorrow I should be free at ten-thirty. I would like you to bring
him to my consulting room at that time,"

"He did have a check-up about six months ago."

"This is routine, for Leon."

"Very well."

"The chauffeur will know where to take you. I will do my utmost

to be there on time."

And it was on that distant note, more or less, that they parted. He
touched her elbow lightly as he helped her from the car, bowed
coolly, waited just long enough to see her enter the hall, and drove
away. To pick up Marcelle Latour, she remembered.

Feeling rather low, she hesitated in that spectacular hall for a

moment before passing through and up the staircase. She changed
the white dress for a figured blue one before going into Timothy's
bedroom. Finding the room empty, she stood and thought for a
minute before going downstairs again. There was no one in the
small salon, and it was too late to expect to find Michael Dean in
the study. She could ring for Louise, but she felt she would rather
find Timothy herself, so that she could see at once how he had
been getting along without her, Catherine had seldom visited the
kitchen and was not welcome there, but now she took that
direction, and as she pushed open the heavy odour- and sound-
proof door she heard his treble tones.

"And I couldn't get down, could I? He said I was a baby, but I

couldn't get down - it was too far. Why did he bang away so cross,
Louise?"
"Bang away, mon petit? What is that - with the feet?"

"He stomped, and didn't look back. It wasn't my fault, was it,
Louise? It was too high."

"Un petit peau," Louise murmured equably. Then she saw

Catherine and said smilingly, "Here is your maman. She will wish
you to have your supper now. I will get it, madame."

Catherine gave her a quick enquiring look, but the maid turned
firmly towards the huge electric range and switched on a hotplate.
The kitchen-maid, who stood at a work-table in the corner, began
to weigh ingredients and tip them into the bowl of an electric
mixer, and Catherine found she was gazing at two stiff backs. So
she turned to Timothy.

"Hallo, sweetie-pie. Are you hungry?"

"Not much." He came round the table and slipped a hot little hand
into hers. "You been a long time."

"We'll go upstairs and you can have supper after you've undressed.
Would you like that?"

Louise said, in her non-committal voice, "Monsieur has ordered

that the child must eat his supper down here, madame. Breakfast
only, in the bedroom."

Monsieur could jump off a cliff. Catherine said, as evenly, "We

may start that tomorrow night, but not tonight. Bring the tray as
soon as it's ready, will you, Louise? Come on, darling - up the
wooden hills."

Catherine felt a little sick as she helped Timothy undress. He

looked pale and anxious, but she daren't probe so near to bedtime.
She had to piece together his afternoon from his worried little
questions and remarks.

"It was so high, you see," he told her. "And Grandfather .,. I mean
Grandpa... he said I must call him Grandpa ..."

He had wandered and she prompted him gently, "What was high,
Timothy?"

"The tree, of course. Did you climb trees when you were little?"

"I think so, with my brother."

"I was all alone."

"In the garden?"

He nodded. "There was Grandpa and Louise, but the climbing was
all by myself. I didn't try 'cos it was a big tree and Grandpa said
Louise mustn't help."

What Catherine would have liked to do to Grandpa! "So you

couldn't manage it," she said with a calm smile that hid a sudden,
fierce heartache. "It doesn't matter a bit. You'll find it quite easy
when you're bigger."

"Grandpa was cross. He lifted me up into the tree and said I must
come down again on my own."

Catherine felt perspiration starting across her "brow. She saw big
tears in Timothy's eyes, and drew him into her arms. "And when
you couldn't do it, Grandpa went away, and Louise got you down?
That's good." She steadied her voice. "No harm's done, chicken. I'll
teach you how to climb trees myself - little ones. I'm afraid
Grandpa doesn't know much about little boys - not yet. And now
let's play one of our own games, shall we? What about making
some words with your bricks? And after supper we'll have one of
the stories from the rabbit book. We'll pretend we're back in the
flat, and Beanie shall be a bunny."

"Beannie's a bunny," he chanted, but not with his usual gusto.

Timothy was late to bed that night. Purposely, Catherine played

with him till he was tired and giggling, and when she held him
close and kissed him good night she knew that for the time being
he felt secure again. It was a relief to see him snuggle down with
Beanie, but inwardly she still seethed.

It was seven-fifteen when she went down to the salon. In fifteen or

twenty minutes someone would arrive for dinner, so she had to act
at once. She crossed to the door of the study, rapped clearly.

"Come in," said Leon Vender's heavy voice, but as she entered he
looked at her as though he might have said other words had he
known who was knocking. "Well, what can I do for you?" he
asked.

"I think you know why I'm here. You're well aware that you scared
Timothy half to death this afternoon. Was that why you insisted on
my going with the doctor - so that you could try out some of those
rough tactics on the child?"

"Don't be a fool if you can help it." He walked round his desk,
clipped a cigar with a small silver instrument. "The boy has less
pluck than a girl of his age, and that's a condition I won't tolerate
in anyone belonging to me. I sent you off with the doctor because I
thought it would be good for the boy to wake up and find someone
else at his bedside. You're with him too much."
"That's true - he needs young companions. But I didn't come to
you about that."

"I know why you came." He gazed at her piercingly from under
the ridge of his brow. "You regard everything from your own
womanish viewpoint, but you're intelligent for all that, and should
be able to see my way of looking at this thing. I'll tell you exactly
what happened this afternoon." He dropped the cigar clipper into a
slot on the massive inkstand, passed a hand over the grey hair at
the back of his head and again gave her a long straight stare. "I saw
the boy walking in the garden with the maid and strolled after
them. I caught them up near a fig tree and told him to try and
climb it. He didn't even move forward - just stood there looking at
me with those great wide-set eyes and saying he couldn't do it.
Ever had a good look at a fig tree?" he suddenly barked.

"Yes, I have. I should say they're easy to climb - but that's not the
point. If you'd encouraged him - helped him a little - he might have
thought it fun. But your way of approaching things has made him
frightened of you. To you he's always the boy or the child. You
never use his name..

"I don't like it."

"That makes no difference. It's his own personal possession, and

you ignore it." Catherine tightened her hands at her sides and
spoke as coolly as she could. "He wouldn't climb the tree, so you
sat him in a branch, well above the ground. That's what happened,
isn't it?"

"Don't flash your eyes at me, young woman. It's a pity you haven't
tried to put some of that fire of yours into the child. You know
what?" with the typical jut of his lower lip and a cynical note in his
voice. "That boy was no more than five feet from the grass .,. and
he cried. Sat there and cried."

She drew a quick breath. "I'm not surprised. Children do cry with
fright, you know. If you try anything of that kind again..."

"So it's threats now, is it?" He sounded interested rather than put
out. "You make a milksop of the child, and I'm to blame for not
liking milksops! That's rather rich."

"It's hardly fair to call a boy of four a milksop," she retorted.

"You're very keen on my seeing things your way, but what about
trying it the other way about? I know you haven't much
imagination, but you do have vision or you wouldn't be a genius of
the business world. Surely you can understand how a child who's
been cooped up in a flat all his life must react to freedom, when it
comes? He's cautious, and a good thing too!" Her voice shook a
little. "If you'd only... helped him down from the tree, instead of
striding away, as though you were disgusted. I'm not against your
having some influence on his life..."

"Well now, that's a concession," he said with sarcasm. "What sort

of influence do you envisage, may I ask?"

She looked down at the thick Chinese rug. "You could talk to him,
for one thing. Action isn't everything - that's just physical, and
most boys come to it in time. What he'll need more and more from
now on is ordinary masculine talk from someone who cares for
him. I know ifs something you've never done in your life; if you'd
talked to Ewart instead of giving him every expensive toy he ever
asked for, he might have grown up with a different set of values.
Little boys don't particularly want ponies and little motor cars with
all the gadgets, and gliders and swimming pools. They want
freedom and companionship ... and whether you like my saying it
or not, they need a background of parental love. You've said you
want the experience of educating a son, but I honestly don't think
you can make a success of it till you love him."

For nearly a minute there was complete quiet. Even the outdoor
noises, caused by roosting birds and the breeze, failed to penetrate
the charged atmosphere of the room. Then, suddenly, Leon
Verender struck a match and set the flame to the tip of his cigar.
He took his time about getting the thing lit and, disposing of the
match, blew smoke from his Finnish lips and said, looking at her
averted face:

"You're young and emotional. I'm nearly forty years older and
hard-bitten. We shall never see eye to eye about this because
whatever happens we shall remain strangers. You're not only the
girl my son married - you're the girl he married without my
consent. You cheated me of the kind of daughter-in-law I wanted.
All right - that's forgiven and almost forgotten now; it has to be.
But you're still the stranger that I didn't want it in my family."

She lifted her head and gazed back at him. "If you cast off Ewart
and don't want me, how can you want Timothy?"

He smiled narrowly, "That's shrewd of you. You get under my

guard sometimes and I don't like it. In any case, you didn't let me
finish. I didn't have you come here to live without thinking about it
a great deal first; what I didn't reckon with was that stubbornness
and pride - though I did realise from your letters to my lawyer that
you'd be as difficult as a woman can be. That was why I wouldn't
offer you money to relinquish the boy." He waited for retaliation,
but receiving only a dark-eyed stare, he added, "I wonder why you
think you know so much more about boys than I do."
"I had to study children during my training. In England, Timothy
had little friends and inevitably I watched them and learned quite a
bit. I know more about children than you do simply because I like
them - and you don't."

"When my grandson behaves like a boy," he said consideringly, "I

shall like him and be proud of him." He paused. "You'll admit you
came here to Pontrieux in a hostile mood, won't you?"

"I had reason. I knew you were going to tolerate having me here
for Timothy's sake."

"And you'd always hated Ewart's father for more or less disowning
him?"

"I didn't hate you. You don't hate someone you can get along quite
easily without."

He shoved the cigar back into his mouth, drew on it hard, and took
it between his fingers. "A few of the things you've said I've asked
for - I know that. But I've been up against problems all my life,
and I don't intend to be bested over this one. If I have to row with
you every step of the way, I'll make a man of that boy!"

"I don't want rows - and there needn't be any if you'll only realise
that you can't train a boy by frightening him stiff. You simply have
to give him time." The breath quivered in Catherine's throat, and
she waited a second to get over it, before saying, "Children react
best to people who love them, and they're particularly good with
grandparents. My own mother ..."

"I don't want to hear it," he growled. "I want that child's habits
changed, his whole outlook sharpened up and made boyish. Get
that hair cut off, and let him play in briefs and nothing else. I want
to see him nut-brown and healthy, fighting fit. I want there to be
nothing in the physical line that he can't do quicker and better than
any other boy. Because it's physical perfection that prepares a boy
for mental gymnastics later on. With a grandfather like me," giving
her a swordlike glance, "and a mother who may be a fool over him
but can acquit herself fairly well in a battle of words, he could
have a brilliant future. That's what I want for him, and what I mean
to have!"

On a deep sigh she said, "There's a happy medium, surely, and we

can't possibly know what he'll want to do with his life till he's
much older."

"Maybe I shan't be here to see what he does with his life, and I
certainly shan't care which career he chooses. But whether it's
science or the law, medicine or finance - he has to have the right
preparation for it in childhood. To be fearless in thought he has to
be fearless physically while young. And that boy will never be
brave while you're pampering and coddling him and getting
between him and danger. I learnt to swim by being thrown into a
river, and I climbed my first tree because I was intensely curious
about what lay on the other side of our garden wall. When I was
seven I ran away to London and somehow kept myself going for
four days before I was picked up and carted home again."

"You were a wonder-child, and Timothy isn't. I do my best not to

spoil him in any way and since he was very small I've gone to
some trouble to find companions for him; I intend to do the same
here. You yourself are making it difficult for me to leave him with
others here at the villa. How could I ever be sure that you wouldn't
suddenly decide to toss him into the swimming pool or make him
sprint till he dropped?"

He shook his head disparagingly. "After his exhibition this

afternoon I shan't try either. When he's used to this place I'll get
him a male tutor who'll put him through his paces outdoors as well
as indoors. If you don't want it to come as a shock to him you'd
better prepare him for it. Don't go yet!" as she turned abruptly
towards the door. "I notice you've used hardly any money from
your account, and the chauffeur tells me you've never yet driven
the car I got for you. It's been run in and it's a charming model,
particularly easy for a woman to handle. Not afraid of the roads
here, are you?"

"I haven't needed a car."

"You will. The first couple of times out you can take Dean with
you, if you like."

"Thank you."

"It's your car," he said in hard tones, "registered in your name. My

chauffeur will see that it's kept in good repair and filled up. As to
your dress , t . you usually look all right to me, but you can't have
had much of an allowance before you came here. Go into Nice and
get yourself fixed up with plenty of everything. I've had Dean
telephone those fashion houses I told you about, and just by giving
your name you'll get top treatment." The sharp, narrowed glance
gleamed momentarily as he saw the fine bones of her face in
youthful, delicate but unyielding profile. "Don't think I'm trying to
buy your co-operation. Even in this short time I've come to know
you better than that. But it so happens that in this part of the world
I'm someone - Verender, the magnate, who owns a luxury villa and
a yacht that's brought some of the best-known people in the world
to Pontrieux. I also have shares in the plush hotels of the Cote, as
well as an interest in several of the big departmental stores. I
wouldn't mind at all," very deliberately, "if my daughter-in-law
became the most envied woman of the whole Mediterranean coast.
So go ahead and buy - the accounts will come to me."
On the point of voicing an automatic, "You're very kind",
Catherine pulled herself up. She merely nodded to him and walked
out into the salon. With a movement that was a little nervous she
took a magazine from the tidy pile on a small table, sat near a lamp
and began turning the pages. But she couldn't read; she felt too fed
up and touchy.

The man was really quite impervious. Possessions were his

yardstick, and if he'd ever had any emotions they'd gone the way
of any other weakness he might have detected in himself at a very
early age; they had been smothered during his drive for power.
Everything that belonged to him had to be in the super-class; even
his daughter-in-law.

Catherine was glad when the guests arrived. They were an ageing
French count and his wife and a banker from Paris; typical of this
house.

Yes, after eight or nine days the holiday feeling was gone.
Catherine knew that now she had to plan ahead, for Timothy's
immediate, future. At precisely ten-thirty next morning she entered
the comfortable waiting-room which adjoined Philippe Sellier's
consulting rooms. At twenty-five minutes to eleven a thin, thirtyish
receptionist asked that Madame Verender and the child would
please go in to see the doctor.

Philippe, wearing the unfamiliar short white, coat with dark

trousers, was businesslike, but gentle and talkative with Timothy.
There were the routine tests, a few questions, some notes jotted on
a card while Timothy dressed, a practised smile as Philippe
escorted them through the waiting room to the front entrance of the
small medical centre on he Boulevard Naronne.
"I will telephone my report to your father-in-law," he said
distantly, as they paused in the square tiled entrance hall. The grey
eyes were keen as he added, "There is nothing you particularly
wish me to bear in mind when I speak to Leon?"

"I'm not sure what you mean."

A shrug. "You look pale this morning - but I think there is little
wrong with your health. I would say there has been another sance
with Leon."

"That's clever of you. Thanks for the offer, but I don't think you
can help me in any way - in your report about Timothy, I mean -
except perhaps to mention once more that Leon will have to be
patient."

"I will certainly do that. You go straight home now?"

"No, I'm going into Nice for the first time."

A cool smile. "I envy you that. I grew up knowing Nice as

intimately as I know Pontrieux; it has never been new to me. There
is much traffic there; you go with a chauffeur, of course?"

"No, but I shall have a companion." As Philippe bowed to a

starchy little woman who looked like a duchess, Catherine said,
"Well, I won't keep you. Thank you for seeing us before your
normal hours."

Philippe bent towards the little boy. "I forgot to ask about your
Beanie. How is he?"

"He's better this morning, thank you," said Timothy politely.

"He has been ill?"

"No, but... but he had to climb a tree yesterday."

"Pauvre joujou! He was hurt?"

"He cried."

"Ciel! You must be most kind to him today." Philippe straightened

slowly and looked at Catherine. "So?" he said in a stern,
comprehending undertone. "This was forced while you were at my
house yesterday? But why did you fight with Leon about it? There
is not a scratch on the child."

She stared at him, shocked. "You're as bad as he is!" she said in

quiet fury. "You interpret everything physically, as he does. Do all
men grow alike in this country? Do they all ignore the bruises
inflicted on a child's mind, and care only about the health of the
body? I know you're a doctor, and that..."

"I also have common sense," he clipped out in alien tones, "and
perhaps I have had even more experience with children than you
have. The first adventure of any kind is always a terror, but the
body has reserves to deal with such things. You see how the child
plays there on the staircase? He is no different from others of his
age. He is built to withstand the sudden frights - childhood is a
succession of them. In trying to shield him you are doing him an
injury!"

"I won't have him meet any more dangers than necessary till he's
fit to deal with them," she said quickly. "I knew a long time ago
that Leon was soulless, but I did think that you understood a little."

"I understand very well. You are making the child your whole life,
and that is wrong - for him and for you. You are still very young."

"Just now I'm not concerned for myself."

"And when the time comes that you have to think of yourself -
what then?'

She made a complication of pulling on a glove. "I don't know what

you're getting at."

"I think you do," he said coldly. "There will be another man in
your life; in spite of that independent outlook you have acquired
you are of a kind to need a man - his love and protection. Have
you thought how this man will feel about the child?"

"Certainly not."

"You should, mon amie. When the time comes you will think that
he should love the boy because he is yours. But," with soft and
deadly emphasis, "he will find it almost impossible even to tolerate
a child who demands most of your affection and care. Because if
you continue placing the interests of Timothy before everything
else that is what will happen - he will expect and demand the first
place in your affections - always."

Catherine's head was still bent and the pretty curve of her mouth
had compressed slightly.

"I do what I feel is right," she said in low tones.

"I know that," he said offhandedly, and moved towards the open
door. "Au revoir."

She murmured a reply and passed him, went down the three wide
steps with Timothy and smiled mechanically at Michael Dean,
who stood beside the open door of the primrose yellow car,
bowing theatrically. As she settled herself she looked towards the
doorway of the medical centre. Philippe had gone.
"What's the matter with our doctor friend?" asked Michael as he
got in beside her. "He looked at me as if I were something that had
crawled out of a drain."

"He's not very pleased with me." She looked over her shoulder.
"All right, Timothy?"

"Yes. May I eat my bar of chocolate now?"

"Well, don't..." She had been about to warn him, against smearing
his Shirt. Darn that interfering, charming, barricaded, masterful
doctor; he had no right to influence her like this. "Yes, eat it," she
said. "You'll have some lemonade when we get to Nice."

She drove carefully through the main boulevard of Pontrieux and

out on to the Corniche.

Timothy piped up, "Would you like a piece of my chocolate,

Mummy?"

"No, thank you, pet."

"Would you like a piece, Mr. Michael?"

Michael turned and looked at him. "Never knew such a polite kid
in my life. What sort of chocolate is it, youngster? All right, I'll
have a bite. Daren't smoke in this mobile boudoir."

"What's a ... bood-wah?"

"Well, it's a place where ladies ,.. no, I guess you're a bit too
young. Look out, there, don't put your mucky fingers on the
leather!"
Catherine laughed suddenly. It was a relief to find someone as
carefree as Michael uttering the sort of warning she had been about
to administer herself. She slipped a hanky from the pocket of her
short cream coat and held it over the back of the seat, felt Timothy
take it and heard him settle back into the soft upholstery.

"How did the medical exam go off?" asked Michael, when he had
disposed of his mouthful.

"Very well. Dr. Sellier did it for Leon, and will send him a report."

"I don't suppose he has time to escort all his patients to the front
door. You were special." Michael grinned. "He's a cool customer,
isn't he? Once, when he was at the villa, I showed him a lump on
my wrist. He said it was a ganglion and gave it a terrific whack
with the side of his hand. For about an hour it ached like mad, but
next day the thing was no more. I didn't get a bill for it."

"Isn't Pontrieux rather small to have a medical centre?"

"There are so many villages in the district, and many of them have
no doctors, so the people come into Pontrieux. The medical centre
building was a large old mansion that had been empty for some
time. Philippe suggested to the other medicos that it would benefit
them and the community if it was bought and transformed into
consulting suites. They formed a company to foot the cost and they
pay a small rental to cover upkeep. It was already established
before I came to Pontrieux, but it's quite famous along the coast.
Philippe has been asked to take a fashionable practice in Nice, but
he won't go. He's a rum type - very sure of himself, charming, but
with a layer of cold steel somewhere. Met his sister yet?"

She nodded. "I had tea with her yesterday. She's not much like
him."
"Bit of an enigma, I believe, and very possessive." With a
deprecating gesture he added, "I only know what I hear fall from
the lips of the mighty, but it seems the girl intends to cling along
with Philippe for ever and ever. But she's canny; she knows darned
well that her brother won't remain a bachelor all his life, so she
vets all the women he meets. That's probably why she had you
there yesterday."

Catherine felt a warmth come up under her skin. "How could I

endanger her security?" she said a little shortly. "She ought to get
married herself - it's what she needs."

"I believe she makes a thing of being temperamental and arty.

Philippe keeps her feet on the ground and she knows it. She'd go
halfway round the bend if he married someone who didn't want her
about the place."

"She's too sensible for that."

"Maybe, but she could make herself mighty unpleasant. For her
sake, everyone is hoping he'll marry Marcelle Latour."

She asked casually, "She does sculpture, doesn't she - this

Mademoiselle Latour? Yvette gave a party last night to celebrate
Marcelle's having an item accepted for exhibition somewhere."

"I believe she's clever at it, but not dedicated. She's not a local. I
first heard of her about six months ago. I met the Sellier group at a
carnival affair, and Marcelle was partnering Philippe. She belongs
to an old Provencal family. She was left some money by an aunt,
and decided to use some of it on a stay among the bohemians of
the Cote d'Azur. She lives with a married couple at Beausolais -
never comes to Pontrieux except to see the Selliers. Yvette's made
a buddy of her."
"Is she good-looking?"

"In my opinion - yes. She hasn't the classic French looks. Her
colouring is mid-brown and she has masses of rather untidy hair,
but on her it looks good. You know the present- day French film
star - full mouth, high cheekbones, and a look about the eyes that
couldn't be anything but continental - that's how Marcelle Latour
strikes you. But she has his air of belonging on an old family, and
the money, of course, is the sort of dowry no Frenchman would
sneer at. You know, Catherine, that's where we English fall flat on
our faces. Our girls sail into marriage without a bean."

She smiled. "They can be sure they've been married for love."

"But, darn it, if you're broke love can take an awful beating."

"Are you going to marry a French girl?"

"Lord, no - that is, not unless she'd give up her family, and they
seldom do." He went a little gloomy. "I doubt if I'll ever marry. I
couldn't bear to live with a woman who was dissatisfied half the
time, and that's how she'd be if I had to be the provider. I think
every father should give his daughter a dress allowance for the first
ten years of her marriage."

"You're just talking. If you fell in love you'd be quite incensed if

the girl's father questioned your ability to buy her clothes." They
took another wide curve, and met a sight that made her lift her toe
from the accelerator; an immense sea of flowing pink. "Good
heavens, are they carnations?"

"Yes, for perfume. This is the second crop - the season is nearly
over. Between Menton and Hyeres they produce almost every
essence you can think of - they even use mountain herbs and
flowers. We're getting close now. Want me to take over?"
"Perhaps you'd better. I'd rather know the streets before I drive
along them."

They changed places, and moved off again. Past palatial entrances
to invisible villas, through a tunnel created by umbrella pines past
a cliffside hotel and down between walled gardens into the most
exciting city of the Mediterranean seaboard. The endless
Promenade de la Mediterranee, its palms and holiday throngs in
gay and scanty dress, its edging of golden sand and the wide sweep
of the azure bay - Catherine knew it was one of the most famous
thoroughfares in the world. And rightly so; there was some extra
magic in the warmth and joy of that lovely esplanade in Nice, with
its strange and distant background panorama of mountains and
capes.

"I feel as if I want to walk and walk," she said breathlessly.

"You've got the rest of your life for that," he said easily. "I'll take
you through to the shops. Over here," waving towards a public
garden, "is the Musee Massena. You must go there some time. We
turn up here ... and turn again towards the Avenue de la Victoire.
Anything in particular you want to get?"

"Only books, this morning. I thought perhaps I could get hold of a

few novelties for teaching Timothy."

"You can buy anything here. What about those dress shops? You'll
be a fool if you don't get all you can out of the old man." He lifted
a hasty hand from the wheel. "All right, all right. I don't mean it
the way it sounds. It would please him and it wouldn't harm you at
all. You know, you should have a definite plan for dealing with
Leon. Be submissive in every way you possibly can, so that when
you do stick out for something he's brought up sharp, and has to
consider it."
"It's an awfully good plan, Michael, but I doubt if I could keep to
it. Could you let me off here?"

"Just you?" He slowed and looked a wee bit chagrined. "Aren't you
taking Little Eric with you?"

"Don't call him that! As a matter of fact you're going to look after
him - you're to take him to get his hair cut." She paused. "Did you
have a plan of your own for 'the next hour?"

"Well, I do know a girl in a travel agency back there, but I'll get
the kid shorn for you. An inch off all round?"

She looked critically at Timothy's soft fair hair. "Not as much as

that - and don't have the style altered. It suits him as it is. You're
staying with Michael, darling. He'll show you all sorts of things."

They arranged to meet at that exact spot in one hour, and the
yellow car slid away, leaving Catherine a little dazed by the noise
and gaiety of the crowded street. For half an hour she window-
gazed absorbedly, but then found her bookshop and browsed
among French novels and children's books. She bought some
readers and picture books, a couple of English periodicals, and
soon discovered, regretfully, that it was time she returned to the
spot where she had left the car.

With his hair trimmed short Timothy looked sweet, but he reeked
of violets. Blissfully he hung over the back of the seat between
Catherine and Michael, and said:

"I smell sheek. The man said so. I had lemonade, and Michael
drank something that..."

"That's enough from you," said Michael. "Next you'll be saying

that we weren't alone when we had the drinks."
"Weren't you?" asked Catherine. "Did the travel agent let your
friend out for a while?"

He laughed. "No. We went to a cafe near the sea, and who should
roll by in her pink auto but Lucille d'Esperez. She recognised this
car and stopped. Seems she's been invited to the Villa Chaussy for
lunch, and she thought we might take her back with us."

Unaccountably, Catherine's heart sank a little. "Is that where we're

going now - to her hotel?"

"Afraid so. I didn't want her any more than you do, but she has
power up at the villa."

"I rather gathered that. Have they been friendly for long -she and
Leon?"

"A couple of years. She's angling cleverly - shouldn't be surprised

if she catches the big fish."

"You mean she'll marry him?"

"What else do you think she wants? Our Lucille leads an expensive
life and owns only the car and some jewellery that seems to be
dropping away bit by bit. And why shouldn't the old boy marry
again? He's not senile."

"But ... but to be married for your money. Does Leon deserve
that?"

"I don't know, but it's what he'll get. After all, she's twenty-five
years younger than he, and she looks pretty marvellous in what she
can afford herself. When Leon's money provides the gilt she'll be
the most talked-of woman in Nice.
"He's always had to have the best," she commented, "but his best
isn't the genuine thing. He's never lived a cosy family life, never
wanted people for what they are - only for a sort of added glory to
himself. He's a narcissist."

"I'm not quite sure what that is, but for a bankroll of a million I'd
be one myself," said Michael blithely. "Actually, I think you've got
him wrong. Believe it or not, there's a generous streak in the man,
and he takes no one at face value. If he decides to marry Lucille
it'll be because she has some fundamental thing that he needs. This
is where she stays, by the way," as he pulled in outside one of the
discreet hotels facing the sea. "And there she is, talking with
Colonel Verlaine. As companions, they suit each other - I believe
he's looking for a rich wife!"

Lucille d'Esperez saw them and waved gloved fingers while she
finished what she had to say to the man. Michael stood near the
open car door till she gathered her purse from the near-by table
made her adieux and came down to them.

"This is most pleasant! I do hope you did not mind my asking

Michael to call for me? Perhaps the child could sit in front, no?
Then you and I will have a talk, madame. May I call you
Catherine?"

"Please do."

The shuffle-round was accomplished, much to Timothy's delight.

He stood with his nose pressed against the windscreen till Michael
firmly shoved him back into his seat and started the car. Catherine
spared a second to reflect that perhaps it was someone like
Michael that Timothy most needed at the moment. Michael knew
nothing of child psychology, had no idea, nor cared, what a four-
year old thought or experienced; he simply knew that he didn't
want someone falling across the wheel or driving his head through
the windshield, so he thrust that someone safely into his seat. Most
uncomplicated in all his reactions was Michael Dean.

As the car gathered speed, Lucille touched the pale blue leather
with long white fingers. "It is feminine, no? You like the car?"

"It's a beauty."

"I helped Leon to choose it, you know. He thought cream both
exterior and inside would be more suitable, but I had the feeling
that the pastel blue with primrose would suit your colouring,
though I did say that you should be consulted."

"Is it as new as that?"

"Oh, yes. It was bought last week, before I had seen you. Leon
mentioned your hair was red and that your skin was pale - too pale,
he said! However, I decided a little colour would be better than the
cream. Every rich woman in Nice has a cream car."

"I'm not a rich woman."

Lucille sat back in her corner, rested her slanting glance upon
Catherine. "You can be, if you wish. You cannot change the fact
that your son is a rich little boy."

Swiftly, Catherine lifted a finger to silence the woman. Lucille

laughed gently, looked momentarily towards the fair brush of hair
which was all that was visible of the child in the front seat, and
shrugged.

"Far better to let him grow up with the knowledge," she said in her
foreign tones. "At school, he will mix with the sons of the rich and
aristocratic; he must know himself to be just as they are, and he
cannot know too soon."

"He won't go to school for a year."

"But that is absurd! We have nursery schools here just as you have
them in England. A few English children attend them, and for
those who live at a distance there are excellent hostels at which the
children can stay from Monday till Friday. That would be an ideal
arrangement for the child."

"I believe the summer here is very hot," said Catherine firmly. "I
shan't send Timothy to school till it's well over, and then it will be
to a day school, mornings only, to begin with. In any case, I can
teach him a good deal myself."

"Your methods will not be those of France, and he should be

taught in French alongside the English," Lucille pointed out, as if
she were being very fair. "In my opinion it is a bad thing for a
mother to teach her own child. It could spoil him for other
teachers."

"That's something I shall have to guard against."

Lucille smiled. "Leon has told me you are a stubborn young

woman. He is too impatient, too arrogant, to take the trouble to
point out your errors of judgement, but I feel it is perhaps my duty
to warn you a little. Leon has the right to decide on the boy's
education; he has already discussed it with me."

Catherine's nerves received a mild electric shock. "With you?" she

asked, trying hard not to emphasise the pronoun. "Why should he
do that? Have you had experience of educating the young,
Madame d'Esperez?"
The smile chilled. "I am Leon's closest friend, his only woman
friend. Also, I have knowledge of conditions here, which you have
not. Leon wishes, eventually, to engage a tutor, but until he does,
the boy will have to attend one of the schools in the district. I feel
it would be good for him to start soon, so that he receives an early
grounding in French."

In spite of a determination to remain calm, Catherine felt her

tension becoming more acute. She had no option but to contend
with Leon, but nothing and no one could force her to give in to this
woman who was not even a connection by marriage, yet, to the
Verender family. The confined interior of a car, however, was no
place for stating her opinion. Inadvertently, she looked straight
into the rear-view mirror: she met one eye, saw it half close,
warningly, and knew that Michael had overheard.

"We'll talk about it some other time," she said. "It's a beautiful
drive from Pontrieux to Nice, isn't it?"

Lucille agreed benignly, but said no more. Timothy could be heard

asking questions and gaining a grunt now and then in reply. An
occasional whiff of violets was released into the back of the car to
overpower the far more subtle perfume of Lucille.

It was about five minutes past one when they arrived at the Villa
Chaussy. Lucille did not go into the house. She sank into a chair
on the patio just outside the terrace and called for Antoine. She
ordered a drink and mentioned that Monsieur should be told of her
arrival. Michael drove the car away, and Catherine took Timothy's
hand in hers and, with a murmured excuse, went into the house.
But in the hall she met Leon. In a light tropical suit, his hair
immaculately brushed so that the white wings looked pronounced
and distinguished, he bent his penetrating glance first upon
Catherine and then upon Timothy.
"Well, and what do you think of Nice?" he asked gruffly.

"Seems to be a wonderful place," Catherine said.

"Car go all right?"

"Beautifully."

"What about you, young man - enjoy yourself?"

"Yes, thank you, Grandpa."

"What did you do?"

"Michael took me to have my hair cut."

"They left too much on. Go on upstairs. I want to speak to your

mother for a minute."

Timothy clip-clopped across the hall and disappeared. Leon gazed

with disconcerting thoroughness at Catherine's features. He spoke
deliberately.

"My yacht is in Nice harbour. I'm going down there to authorise a

few changes this afternoon and I'm taking the boy along - without
you."

Catherine drew in her lip. A little thinly she said, "Well.,, that's all
right, so long as he's watched."

"He'll be watched. Lucille is going with me.";

"You won't make him do anything ..."

"I told you Lucille will be there! She'll look out for him." That
unpleasant gleam which always seemed to be hovering when he
spoke to Catherine shone from the hard blue eyes. "Philippe Sellier
phoned his report after he'd seen you this morning. He's perfectly
satisfied with the boy's condition and says it would be a mistake to
pamper him. Do you know what I asked him?" She didn't answer,
so he went on, "I asked him whether he considered your way of
raising the child was the right one. You'll never guess his reply. He
said it would be good for you both if you saw a good deal less of
each other!"

"In that," said Catherine with an effort, "I have to agree with him.
Will you excuse me?"

She mounted the marble staircase, went to Timothy's room and

helped him to wash, after which she carried him pick-a-back to the
kitchen, where he was to have lunch.

Afterwards she took him upstairs for his rest, and was glad to see
him close his eyes as soon as he lay down. For a long moment she
looked at his sunny little face, with the brown lashes lying against
the clear skin of his cheek. His mouth, still babyish in outline, was
pink and healthy, and as she watched, his lips parted slightly,
showing the tiny white teeth. She wanted to gather him close,
chase every small fear out of his life.

She moved to the door and looked back. At this distance he looked
a wee bit tougher - that haircut, of course. That had been a small
offering to Leon, and a lot he'd cared. He'd only gloated over
another victory - Philippe's reply to his question. Philippe...

Quickly, Catherine took off her jacket, washed and made up her
face. She decided the cream dress would do and went downstairs
just as Louise was ascending, to tell her that Monsieur was
demanding that she come at once for lunch.
CHAPTER FOUR

LIFE did settle at last into a sort of routine, but for Catherine the
painful moments were recurrent and they always came at the same
time, around six o'clock, when Leon returned with Timothy from
some excursion or other. He didn't take the boy out every day, but
perhaps three times a week he would say, round lunch-time: "I'm
going out to see an old friend of mine who breeds horses", or
"Lucille and I are taking a drive down to Cannes, to look up a few
friends," or "I'm still not satisfied with the new. radio in the yacht -
may as well look it over again this afternoon." And each time
Timothy would go along, looking a little keyed up but not daring
to make a scene.

Those afternoons when he was away couldn't help but be painful

for Catherine, because Timothy was always reluctant to go and he
inevitably came back looking tired and wanting to go to bed; it
was as though he longed to sleep and forget. Yet nothing
momentous seemed to happen while he was with Leon. He would
certainly have told Catherine had there been more scares.

But in effect all he said was, "Yes, it was nice. Tante Lucille gave
me some milk and a biscuit, and Grandpa told everyone that I'm
Tim Ewart Verender. Is Tim more grownup than Timothy?"

She nodded. "Do you like it better?

He sighed. "I don't know. I don't like horses."

Once she'd casually asked him how close he'd been to the horses.
He'd answered, "I didn't go near them." Which showed that he
hadn't been unduly frightened, anyway.

Every morning she gave him a reading lesson before the mid-
morning break and a writing lesson after it. Later, when they
played, she taught him to make furniture with matchboxes, and
gave him pictures to fill in; he was quick with his fingers, and the
dexterity games gave him self-confidence. Catherine wished his
swimming would progress at the same rate, but perhaps because
the sea still seemed awfully big to a small boy, he glued his feet to
the sand in eighteen inches of water and told her, companionably,
that he'd stay just here and be safe while she had a swim. He did
try while she held him, but at the slightest slackening he would
flail and sink.

His reluctance in certain directions wouldn't have disturbed

Catherine had she been sure he was happy. There were two little
French boys he sometimes played with, on the beach, and Madame
Brulard occasionally entertained him to tea in her quarters with a
series of nephews and nieces. When Catherine took him for a drive
to one of the coastal villages she would encourage him to make
friends with children they met at cafe's or in shops, and once or
twice she had experimented. Like the time when she took two of
Madame Brulard's appendages along for a picnic. What a failure
that had been! Timothy had afterwards confided that he much
preferred talking to Beanie! Beanie did understand English.

The weather grew warmer and flowers scarcer, and the umbrella
pines which shaded many of the residential roads were a boon to
the stroller. There was no rain, though occasionally the sky hazed
over and the sirocco blew from the east. Climbing up from the
beach became such an effort that Catherine began to use the car
even for the short trip to sea- level. Had the swimming pool been
shallower she would have given Timothy his dip right there at the
villa. But at its shallowest end it was three feet deep, and when she
asked Monsieur Brulard if some of the water could be let out fie
almost fainted with shock. Did Madame not know that Monsieur
Verender swam every morning at six o'clock? She ought to have
known, of course; it was just what he would do. She got into the
habit of taking a dip herself while Timothy rested or was out with
his grandfather.

One afternoon she went down to the pool at two-thirty. It was too
soon after lunch for a swim, but it was good to take off the brief
white beach jacket and lie on the grass close to the marble edge of
the pool, in the shade of a huge old evergreen oak. A hot breeze
was blowing, and a dappling of muted light played over her naked
back, but her head was in complete shade, and the mass of light
titian hair spread over the foam rubber pillow and her crossed
arms. At first she dozed, but then she began to wonder how
Timothy would like the trip with his grandfather down to the
Cannes observation tower. Fortunately, he liked heights, and Leon
had mentioned that he proposed having tea with some English
friends of his who had three children; they were older than
Timothy, he'd said, and Catherine hoped the girl of the three would
take the little boy in tow.

She ought to stir and have her swim. Then tea and a cigarette and
perhaps a talk with Michael. Lucky Michael, living way up the
garden in his guest cottage. She and Ewart might have been crazily
happily in such a place, but they had never progressed beyond the
tiny flat. Sometimes it seemed as though they had been two people
whose emotional paths had crossed accidentally; he had never
developed into the man who mends the lock or fixes the rickety
card table or gets the baby's glucose water. Ewart had grown up
among servants and had gone on living that way, without them.
Occasionally she thought that instead of her husband he should
have fen a sweetheart along the way, one of her sudden passions
during those magic years of being absolutely young' and carefree.
They had been deliriously in love for a while, and if some vital
aspect of love had been missing it hadn't mattered to her very
much once Timothy was there.
A pain ran through her body, a sensation that was partly a poignant
looking back, partly a wistful glance into a veiled future. And then
her thoughts became stilled; she could hear footsteps on the marble
tiling which ran along the side of the blue pool and curved out here
and there to accommodate loungers and deck chairs. Instinctively,
she knew that stride, and without being aware of it she curled her
fingers into fists on the cushion under her head; almost
desperately, she willed him not to see her.

He did, of course. She felt him come to a halt beside her, heard
him say quietly, "You are not sleeping, but I will go away if you
wish it."

She turned over casually, and looked up into Philippe's grey eyes.
They were some way away, but she could see that he had masked
them; it was second nature with him - that cool dropping of a
shutter between himself and any woman who was not
conventionally clothed. She sat up slowly, adjusted the neck strap
of the blue swim-suit.

"Hallo," she said. "I suppose you came to see Leon. He's taken
Timothy to Cannes and will probably be late back."

"Yes, I know. He told me of his plan when I called this morning."

"Oh. Was it a professional call?'

"No, I had a patient near and looked in for a moment, to invite you
for tea; as you were not here I came back this afternoon. There will
be several other guests for tea - friends of my sister."

She gestured. "I was going to have a swim. I can't ask you to wait
while I dress."
"I shall be happy to wait." He extended a hand, gave her a gentle
pull to her feet. "Unless you very much prefer to stay and swim
alone?"

She felt him drop her beach coat across her shoulders and, oddly,
was vexed. She began to walk beside him, her espadrilles
whispering through the cropped grass. "Not at all. How is your
sister?"

"Quite well. Both she and I were sorry that you could not come for
dinner last Saturday. Your excuse,"' with slightly emphasised
consonants, "was what you English call a little thin, no?"

She watched her moving feet, "I had had a tiring day, and I did go
to bed early. In any case, I'd have been in the way. I'm not an
artist."

"Nor I," he said in measured accents. "However, that is in the past.

I promised Leon that I would introduce you to some of the
younger people of Pontrieux, and since you could not come to
dinner to meet them, you may now, perhaps, come for tea."

She almost stopped. "Is this something else you're doing for Leon?
How do you think...?"

"Du calme, s'il vous plait!" Something sharp and angry flashed
across his eyes and was gone, though his voice remained crisp.
"Let us be frank with each other for a moment, and then I leave the
subject. For Leon, I examined his grandson and made a report. In
answer to an enquiry I told him what I had already told you - that
the boy would benefit from being parted from you for a few hours
each day. To you, only, I said that you also would benefit. It was a
considered opinion which I refuse to withdraw." He paused, but
held up a peremptory finger to prevent her speaking. "It is also my
considered opinion that you should meet others of your own age.
Leon agrees; he may be hard and careless of the feelings of others,
but he does not wish you to be lonely. Of course," with a narrow-
eyed smile, "you can always call upon the young Englishman,
Michael Dean, but I hardly think you will find him a completely
satisfactory companion. It is well known in Pontrieux that he flits
from one flame to another."

"I know that too," she said, "and it suits me very well. Michael has
no pretensions - that's why I find him so easy to talk to." She
pushed back the shoulder-length hair with a hand that shook a
little. "Are you sure you want me to go with you for tea? I don't
want to be a duty to ... to anyone."

"You are not a duty," he said in flat tones. "I will wait here on the
terrace."

She turned from him quickly, too quickly. The beach jacket
slipped from her shoulders, and in a reflex action she swung about
and down to pick it up - just as Philippe did the same. Her hair
brushed across his face, a scented mass of shining silk, which she
hurriedly flicked back,'

"I'm sorry," she said abruptly, took the coat and went quickly into
the house.

When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, wearing a printed green

and white silk, Philippe was standing at the edge of the patio,
smoking a cigarette and looking across at the trees. He turned, saw
her, impeccably dressed and with the hair brushed into its usual
flawless couple of waves and the pleat, and smiled a little
mockingly.

"You are three women," he said, "and this one, on the whole, is the
most dangerous."
"Not to you, I'm sure," she returned, as she got into his car. "I dare
say a good many men envy you. It must be rather wonderful to be
woman-proof."

He waited until he was seated beside her before answering, "Is a

man fiver proof against women? I doubt it. Outside one's family,
perhaps, to some extent. But love is an insidious wrecker of
manufactured barriers. Any kind of love."

"Yes, that's true. When I was training as a kindergarten teacher we

had a lecturer who insisted that there must always be a sort of
fence between the teacher and the children. She said it was the
only way to keep their respect."

"And you accepted that? You?"

She smiled. "In a way, yes. I'd seen it work wonders. But I'm
afraid in practice I found it most difficult to fence myself off.
When I first started teaching, a child had only to come into the
classroom looking doleful and the fence came down with a bang
that could be heard right away in the principal's office!"

"After which," he said with a trace of acid, "you were faced with
jealousy from the rest of the class."

She nodded. "I had to change my tactics. Eventually I got the right
attitude, though I still worried if a child was sullen or tearful."

"Because you love children. When you love, you worry."

"Even you?" she asked wonderingly, looking his way as he turned

the car from the drive on to the steep road. "I can't imagine you
worry - you don't look as if you ever have."

"With me, I am afraid, it is not so much worry as a kind of anger."

"That's more like it." She met his glance briefly, and heard herself
asking, in careful tones, "How did you feel when your sister ended
her engagement on the eve of her marriage?"

"So she told you of that," he said calmly. "Quite simply, I was
ragingly angry. It was a long-standing engagement, the new home
was furnished, we could not move in the house for wedding
presents, and relatives from many parts of France were already
gathered at a small hotel in Nice, which we had taken over for the
occasion. But somehow I saw to it that by next morning everyone
knew there would be no wedding. After that, the gifts had to be
returned and the house made normal again. Naturally, the business
must coincide with an outbreak of virus influenza, so that for a
week or two I hardly saw my bed. However, tout passe."

"What about the bridegroom? How did you handle him?"

"I had no time to do more than tell him how matters stood. He was
a sensible young man - he went away for the month that should
have been his honeymoon and returned to his office in Cannes.
Within a year he was engaged to someone else. But Yvette," he
shrugged impatiently. "Instead of being sane like that, she began to
wear ultra-smart jeans and ridiculous sweaters that would have
been loose on an overweight fisherman. She became friendly with
women who seldom combed their hair and with men who had to
wear beards and jackets with hoods in order to be different from
everyone else! You would be amazed at the drab sameness of this
so-called artistic gang."

A shrug. "At first it was for Yvette's sake. She needed an interest
and I thought these people to whom she was drawn would more
quickly soothe her than her own kind. But as in everything else,
there are good struggling artists and bad ones,- the bad ones are
parasites who will flatter and fawn in order to be sure of a good
meal two or three times a week. No doubt that sounds very cold
and unfeeling to you."

"No, I think you have a legitimate grouse. It's been going on for a
long time, hasn't it?"

"Several years, though there have been long quiet intervals,

because even Yvette cannot stand these people for more than a few
weeks at a time. I myself have thrown them out, occasionally."

She couldn't help asking, "Doesn't your sister realise that the life
she's chosen makes things difficult for you? And what of the nights
when you've had a hard day and need all the sleep you can get, in
case you're called out again?" ,

Another shrug, a small slightly cynical smile. "I am not too old to
bear a few nights with scant sleep, though when I am operating
early next morning I insist on a quiet house. That is when I throw
out the visitors! Yvette's way of life does not disturb me for
myself, but for her."

"Yet you wouldn't have had her marry a man she didn't love."

There was a look of worldly speculation in his face as he gazed at

the road ahead and answered, "I believe Yvette herself has realised
that her own effervescence needed the sobering influence of a
solid young man. Perhaps not Armand, but someone like him. A
few times I have invited friends of my own to the villa for a week-
end, men in stable professions who found her attractive. Each time
she has behaved badly; walked about the house in those
abominable slacks or made up her face like a ballet dancer's. And
when they had gone, she would weep for behaving like a child but
explain that she'd known I was trying to match her with this or that
man."
The spare phrasing did not hide from Catherine the pain and fury,
and even perhaps despair, that Philippe had felt on those
occasions. He wouldn't have said much to Yvette; no doubt he had
merely patted her shoulder and told her it wasn't so much a match
he wanted for her as a more balanced life. But a busy and popular
doctor shouldn't have been burdened with the frustrations and
provocativeness of a feverish and regretful sister.

"She ought to travel a bit," said Catherine.

"I have told her that many times. However, she is not in low spirits
at the moment. She has been lively and a little impatient with the
long-haired ones since Marcelle Latour came to live with these
cousins of hers in Beausolais. You will meet Marcelle this
afternoon."

Catherine was silent. They had passed through the town and were
now winding up towards the terraces of villas.

They ran along a short drive and came to a halt behind a tipsy-
looking red bubble-car, which Philippe glanced at as though it
were a dead wasp on a window-sill. With a light hand at her elbow
he led her into the house, which was noisy with conversation.
Today, it seemed, tea was being served in the long sitting-room.
Here and there someone sat in an armchair, but at least a dozen
guests had seated themselves on the floor and were casting cake
crumbs over the beautiful old rugs.

"The manners of some," murmured Philippe, "are, as you see, of

the pig-sty. May I introduce Mademoiselle Dutoit, Madame
Guerly, Messieurs Bolesky, Demaitre .., ah, and here is Marcelle!"
Had his expression lightened suddenly?"Marcelle, you must meet
Catherine Verender. I feel you will like each other."
Catherine spoke the conventional greeting; Marcelle replied, with
a polite inclination of her head. Catherine recalled Michael Dean's
description of the girl: a mass of untidy brown hair (but it looked
attractively careless, not untidy), that certain look about the eyes
which had become familiar to the English through the French film
stars, the high cheekbones. Irregular but pleasant features, a long
mouth with a full lower lip, a careful smile. And she wasn't
dressed like most of the others, in a tight skirt or slacks with a thin
sleeveless blouse. She wore a smart little dress in strawberry pink
with a wide pink and black striped collar, and looked just about her
age, twenty-five.

Philippe excused himself and moved away, and Catherine felt

bound to make conversation.

"I heard you have a piece of sculpture on show," she said.

"Congratulations. It must be very exciting."

"Oh, yes." Her voice was rich and hesitant. "My English is bad,
but I try very hard. I had not accomplished so much - the figurine
was jolie but not good art. These people.. ." with a wave of fine
long fingers, "they consider I am good enough only for the
boutique! I think they are right.'*

"Many more people patronise boutiques than exhibitions,"

Catherine said, "so you please the greater number. Today, anyone
who can form the vague outline of a -figure and gouge a hole in it
can call himself a serious artist."

"Moi aussi," said Marcelle with a lift of her slim shoulders. "I do
not like modern art." This sentence seemed to leave her high and
dry for a long moment. Then she queried, "You come here only
once before, no? That is why Philippe must bring you today?"
Catherine wasn't quite sure what the young Frenchwoman was
getting at. Presumably, all the guests had got here under their own
steam and the fact that Catherine, who lived nearest, had had to be
collected was not under consideration.

"Yes, I've been here only once," she replied cautiously. "I'm not
sure I could have found my way here again. It was very good of
the doctor to find time to bring me."

"Philippe is always very good in that way," stated Marcelle, with a

warm glance in his direction. "From the beginning he has told me
to regard this villa as a home of sorts. Both he and Yvette have
invited me to stay here, but my married cousin - with whom I live
in Beausolais - says it would not be comme il faut. You see,
Philippe and I..." She broke off, her colour rather high, said, "It is
best that I come only as a guest. Philippe does not really admire
these artistic people, and perhaps in my smock I am not so
appealing either. For the present, I will continue my studies at the
art school. It is, after all, the reason I left my own home in
Provence, and the year is already paid for."

Which was a thrifty, if not a romantic way, of looking at it. But she
appeared to be a charming person and was surprisingly modest,
considering that she was probably the only person in the room
whose art had reached exhibition standard. As she talked,
Marcelle's English improved, or Catherine became so accustomed
to it that she could watch the girl. Marcelle Latour had that
atmosphere of sophistication that French women seem to be born
with, but there was also the practised air of beguilement, the
obvious desire to please the male.

Yvette joined them, and commanded the long-suffering Marthe to

pour the tea ... and coffee or chocolate for those who desired them.
She wore a short white skirt with a turquoise blouse that tied at the
waist, and her large bright eyes moved constantly, gazing at first
one person and then another, round the room. She was smiling
with that peculiar secretive expression that was a symptom of her
restless personality, and quite soon she managed to separate
Marcelle from Catherine and plant her securely upon Philippe.
After which she turned back to Catherine.

"She is a sweet thing, Marcelle. I have much affection for her, and
she is so different from me that we are the best of friends." She
sipped her tea, and lifted her heart-shaped face, looking sharp and
elfin. "It is so seldom that one finds a woman with whom one can
be friendly and uncompetitive. And Marcelle is a wise person too.
She would make an excellent doctor's wife."

"Yes, I think she would," said Catherine.

"There is no doubt of it. Marcelle's interest in sculpture is not

much more than a hobby, and I would say that such an interest is
necessary when one is so close to other people's suffering. It will
help her a great deal. For me, I shall be fortunate to have such a
companion."

"So you really think they'll marry?"

"Yes, I do. Marcelle is suitable and she likes Philippe very much.
And Philippe ... for some time I have noticed that he will
occasionally become sharp-tempered, but he is always sweet and
reasonable when Marcelle is here." She shook back the short dark
hair. "You think I am selfish, do you not? You think I consider
only myself! It is not true. I am most anxious that Philippe shall
have a loving wife."

"But it has to be Marcelle Latour?" asked Catherine lightly, as she

put down her cup.
"I have never yet," pronounced Yvette with superb sangfroid, "met
any other woman than Marcelle with whom I could live in peace.
She knows how I feel, she is sympathetic and she is not
possessive. We could have a most happy household."

"It will depend on your brother, won't it? He may decide not to
marry at all."

"Oh, no." Yvette's smile was knowledgeable. "He has been much
engrossed with his profession, but he is a man of strong feelings.
Recently, I have teased him about Marcelle, and I can assure you
he has not objected. It has occurred to me," with another of those
direct glances which gave nothing away, "that you might help me a
little."

"How?"

She gestured expressively, with both hands. "Philippe is invited

often to the Villa Chaussy; he and the rich Verender are close
friends. It would help a good deal if you would see to it that
Mademoiselle Latour also is invited on those occasions."

Catherine considered the other woman, very coolly. "I could

suggest it to Mr. Verender, but would it really help? Why are you
in such a hurry to get this matter settled?"

The smile which Catherine had thought was ever-present slipped

away from Yvette's lips. "Philippe is changing - not much, but
enough for one who knows him as well as I do to read the signs.
As a doctor he remains the gentle expert, but as a man there is
sometimes the look about him of a caged leopard, and I realise that
there is one part of him that I do not know. It is the part of him,"
with an almost offhanded impatience, "that needs a woman - his
woman."
The coolness in Catherine became a chill. "I'm sure your brother
can manage that side of his life without help," she said. "You can
do nothing about that."

"You are wrong. I can do much.' I did not bring Marcelle here to
the villa merely to make Philippe aware of his needs, so that he
would look elsewhere. She is the only woman I could bear to have
live in this house with me, and that is why I must ask you, who are
almost a stranger, to help me a little." Her lower lip trembled with
the sudden angry force of her emotions. "Will you do this trifle -
invite Marcelle when Philippe is asked for dinner?"

"I'll ... suggest it." Catherine paused. "Is that why you got me here
this afternoon - to ask me this favour?"

The smile was back, half petulant, half merry. "I intended to plead
with you, but I also think you are an ornament to a party. See how
these men look at you! Even these idiots who splash angles of
paint all over a canvas and call it art are bewitched by Titian, who
could paint a woman as she looks, and not as an eye and a big toe
and a dish of langouste!" She laughed and was about to add more,
when the telephone rang in the hall. "For Philippe, of course. You
will excuse me?"

Catherine nodded, turned away and placed her cup on a table. She
looked cool and composed, but inwardly she was quivering from
Yvette's merciless honesty. First, there had been Philippe's titbit of
information - that she was to be helped, at Leon's request, to meet
more young people. And now it was Yvette, confessing that
Catherine Verender had been invited to her tea-party for the sole
purpose of extracting a promise that Marcelle Latour should be
included in any social events at the Villa Chaussy to which
Philippe Sellier had been bidden. Catherine wasn't wanted here for
herself, apparently. In which case, it might be as well if she got
away as quickly as possible. She only wished she had come in her
own car!

There was a slight commotion near the doorway. Philippe was

saying firmly, "It cannot be helped, Yvette. The man would not
telephone if his child were not sick, and one cannot discover the
degree of seriousness in any case without seeing the patient. I must
go up to St. Calare at once."

"But we have made no arrangements for this evening," Yvette

protested. "When will you return?"

"Within an hour, I hope, and no doubt you will all still be here."
He turned towards Catherine, spoke across three feet of space. "I
beg that you will stay till I come."

"I'm ready to go now," she said quickly. "Perhaps you could drop
me off on your way to St. Calare."

Yvette said fretfully, "St. Calare is inland. Someone here will take
you home."

But Philippe's glance at Catherine was searching, though he spoke

non-committally. "If you wish to leave I can take you." Then he
flashed a quick smile at Marcelle Latour. "Remain here for dinner,
Marcelle - telephone your cousin, Bien?"

"Bien, Philippe."

Catherine said a hurried, collective goodbye and went out with him
to the car. He backed from the bubble-car and they shot away past
other variegated vehicles towards the road. There was only one
way from the villa to the main Corniche, and he took it fast.
"They will not be expecting you at the Villa Chaussy for some
time," he said. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to St.
Calare?" As she did not make an immediate reply he added, "I saw
that something had upset you. I could not have you leave us early,
and disturbed. Can you not tell me what has happened?"

Tell him that his sister was arranging that he see more of the
woman she wanted him to marry?"It wasn't important. I don't
really fit in with your sister's friends."

"She does not fit too well herself; most of them she despises
because they use her." A pause. "You did not say whether you
wish to go with me to St. Calare."

Catherine only knew that if she didn't have to leave him at once
she she didn't want to. "I'd like it," she said. "I don't mind how
fast you go. It's been so hot today and speed will blow away the
miasma."

He knew these roads so well that his driving, even at speed, was
automatic. They zipped along the Corniche for about three miles,
then turned off towards the mountains. In the valley, a few farms
lay sweltering in the late sun, but villages perched on the hillsides
looked fresh among the cypresses and palms. Along the verges the
ubiquitous umbrella pines leaned lazily towards the road, and here
and there a clump of Barbary fig or fleshy-leaved aloe fought with
the grey-green of wild olives and the wilting emerald of almond
trees.

He spoke distantly. "I am sorry you came for tea with that crowd. I
hoped you would find Marcelle a good companion. She is not like
the others."

"I did like her," she said, "and I hardly spoke to the rest."
"And you will not tell me what it was that distressed you?"

"It was probably a sense of my own inadequacy." And to prevent

further probing: "Did you see Mademoiselle Latour's figurine - the
one that was exhibited?"

From his expression he wasn't entirely put off the subject he had
begun himself, but he answered casually, "Yes. It is a graceful
study of a girl among reeds, intended to remind one of a swan, I
think. Marcelle has talent, but no spark of genius - for which she
may be most thankful."

"Is that her usual kind of work?"

"I think one might say it is typical. She has tried abstract subjects,
but she is essentially a nice person, without pretensions; when she
fails she is the first to admit it. Her studio shelves are almost
empty, because she will not keep her failures. When I was there
last she was working on the head of an old man, but not very
seriously. She is not one of this bohemian colony. Marcelle is what
you English call the marrying kind."

She was probably a marvellous cook and capable of turning her

studio into a cosy living-room. Catherine could see them, one each
side of a candlelit table, two people speaking as a French couple
spoke, with the veiled intimacy that finally develops into
something more substantial. The married cousin would be below,
an unseen chaperon.

No profit at all in thinking along those lines; only a peculiar ache.

She said, "I never liked mountains before I came to the Cote
d'Azur. In England, they're never clear-cut, as they are here, and
mighty dark shapes against purple clouds are a bit depressing. Do
you like England?"
"Very much. To me, London is the most amusing town in the
world."

"More amusing than Paris? I can hardly believe that!"

"But yes! Paris is the most wonderful city in the world, but not the
most amusing."

"I disagree. London..."

"We will not argue because comparisons are foolish in this case.
Over there, in the shadow of the hill, is St. Calare. This house I am
to visit is behind the church. There is a newspaper in the pocket of
the door. I suggest you read it while I make my call."

He turned off the mountain road and along a rough track which
seemed to be the main road to the village. He took a narrow lane
beside a church, drove about half a mile and came to a halt in front
of an old stone cottage. With a smile at Catherine, he took his bag
and left her alone in the car.

She didn't get out the newspaper. Instead, she watched the sun
disappear behind a crag, and chickens taking their last peck of grit
and corn before fluttering into their runs and springing up on to the
perches. Goats were bleating somewhere, but as dusk fell their
cries petered out, and the whole hillside became quiet and still.
Catherine almost dozed.

Philippe came suddenly. He opened the car door and sat in with
her, leaving the door wide. He spoke quickly. "It is the little girl -
enteritis. She will be all right, but there is something else. They
have a son who farms a few acres at a place called Milaise, which
is about twenty-five miles away. Several days ago they heard he
had had an accident - a crushed foot - and since then there has
been no news. They are most worried; he is far from a doctor and
they have no means of getting to him. Besides, there was this sick
child. As usual, they waited almost too long before calling me.
However, I must go and see this young man, but first I will take
you home."

"But isn't this on your way?"

He nodded. "But it will take some time - the road is no more than a
cart track. I can return you to the Villa Chaussy in twenty
minutes."

"But you have to come back by the same road!" She turned her
head towards the lights of the village, "Can't we telephone the
villa?"

"You will go with me?" There was an odd look in his eyes, one she
couldn't decipher in the near-darkness. "Very well. I will tell these
people to telephone for us." He paused. "You will not mind if we
return too late for you to say good night to the child."

She would mind. It would be the very first time; but there was a
young man lying ill somewhere in the darkness, and she knew a
compulsion to stay with Philippe as long as she could. There
would never Be another time like this, and she had to grasp it.

"Tell them to ask for the maid, Louise, and give her the message,
and if it's not too difficult you might pass on a sort of 'Good night,
Timothy'."

"I will do that."

He was back within two minutes, followed by an oldish man who

swung a lantern and bowed his "Bonsoir, monsieur le docteur.
Bonsoir, madame." He said something else that Catherine did not
catch, and as the car moved away she asked Philippe to elucidate.
He said calmly, "The old one thanked you, and hoped the extra
journey would not make us late home for dinner."

Catherine became aware of heat rising to her cheeks, and was glad
of the darkness. For several minutes she felt quite wretched and
the victim of a muddle of thoughts. She shouldn't have come with
Philippe; it was grasping at something that didn't belong to her,
something she could never have, because Philippe was strong and
individual, and more than half in love with Marcelle Latour. He
didn't mind the old man's error as she did, of course; it meant little
to him that Timothy had been mistaken for his own son, and
Catherine for his wife. By the look of him, staring through the
windshield at the last gold light of the sun on the edge of the dark
sky, he was already some way away.

It was a dreadful road, no more than two narrow tracks with grass
between them, and a scattering of loose cobbles which beat up at
the car as they spurted from beneath the wheels. Taken slowly, it
would have been a nightmare, and even at speed they were jolted
unmercifully. There were narrow hairpin bends, sudden gradients,
a long valley with lights twinkling here and there, and then more
climbing with the recurring hazard of wandering cows whenever
the ground flattened out.

They hardly spoke at all till he slowed at a sign which pointed to

several villages, Milaise among them. After that, the difficulty was
to know just which line of huge whitewashed rocks signified the
smallholding they were bound for. Somehow they reached their
objective. It was very dark, and Philippe flashed his lamp over the
cottage before getting out of the car.

Automatically, Catherine followed him, and silently she echoed

his, "Mon dieu - quel disastre!"
For only half the mud and stone building still stood. The rest was a
heap of wood and stone rubble over which one had to scramble in
order to enter the part that still existed.

"Go back to the car," Philippe ordered. "I will take a quick look
and join you. The young man must have left this place."

But at that moment they heard a thin babbling. Philippe started

forward and flashed his torch, and in the beam Catherine saw what
he saw - an unshaven youngster of no more than twenty, lying on
the floor against the upright wall. His eyes were closed, his black
lips moved feverishly, but his body was uncannily still.

Philippe swung round. "Get back!" he exclaimed furiously. "The

rest of this place could fall at any moment. I will pull him outside."

"I'll help you."

"Keep away," he bit out. "Go to the car; you should not even be
here."

"I'm staying," she said, "and I'm going to help."

He took her shoulders in a grip that sent pain right down to her
elbows; his jaw worked. "You will do as you are told. This is no
place for you -1 can manage alone. Get away from this. Vite!"

She was breathing rather fast. "I won't. Two of us can do it in half
the time. Just tell me what I have to do. Philippe!" as his grip
tightened. "That hurts!"

"I will hurt you more if you do not obey," he said swiftly through
thinned lips. "Stand clear of this place!"
He gave her a push and, taking it for granted she would do as he
said, he again flicked on his light and moved into the alcove. For
an undecided moment of astonishment and pain Catherine stood
where he had left her. She saw him crouch over the youth and feel
his pulse, bend up the left leg, so that he could examine the blood-
soaked makeshift bandage which swathed the foot.

She turned and ran back to the car, brought Philippe's bag, opened
it and slid forward over the stones, to place it near him.
Mechanically he flipped up the inner lid and chose a hypo.
Catherine eased nearer, leant over and pushed up the young man's
shirt-sleeve. Philippe plunged the needle into the upper arm, gave
her a brief blazing glance and said violently.

"Is this not enough - that I must worry about you too? Go and sit in
the car. Va-t'en!"

White faced, her blue-green eyes large and clear, she gazed back at
him. "I'm not Dresden china," she whispered. "You can beat me
afterwards, if you like, but I'm going to help. I'll take his legs."

Philippe Sellier, the suave doctor who had never been known to
become even slightly ruffled in the presence of sickness or
accident, was now a taut and glittering stranger. For a moment she
thought he would thrust her out bodily; then, as though he could
not trust himself to speak, he bent and slipped his arms under the
dead weight of the youth. Catherine cradled the legs, taking care to
keep the foetid, filthy bundle which was the injured foot away
from contact with anything else. Slowly they moved.

A huge stone toppled from the wall, then another. Something to do

with the vibration of our movements, Catherine thought
abstractedly. Something hit her back with paralysing force, and
Philippe must have heard the sound, for he flashed the light
straight into her face.

She winced. "Don't do that. I'm all right. We're nearly out."

He was still too angry to speak. Their burden was set down close
to the car, he opened the front door and nodded sharply that she
must get in. There was that in his manner that made her obey him
this time, quickly. She sat very still, looking down at her hands,
while he manoeuvred the young man into the back of the car. He
came beside her and set the car in motion. But they had moved
scarcely a yard when a deafening crack followed by a tumble of
stones signified that what was left of the cottage was not far from
complete disintegration. Philippe trod hard on the accelerator.

They must have covered twenty miles before Catherine found the
courage to say, "He's terribly ill, isn't he?"

Philippe's reply was almost without expression. "Gangrene. He

will certainly lose his foot."

"Wouldn't there have been neighbours somewhere near?"

"Within a mile, I should say, but he is young and they would

imagine him capable of looking after himself. Possibly many have
passed close to that cottage recently and decided he had left it. It
was no doubt derelict When he settled there."

"What about the man who took the message to his parents?"

"A beam had crashed, that was all. The rest has happened since
then." He glanced at her, and back at the road. "You do not feel
sick or faint?"
"No. Only desperately sorry for him. Will you take him straight to
hospital?"

"Yes."

He sounded so cold and uncompromising that she said no more.

She recognised the turn from the track on to the rough road down
towards St. Calare, but after that they took a different route - in the
direction of Nice, she thought. The road improved and soon they
were on tarmac; and then he was pulling in at a service station. He
got out and spoke to the owner, who probably knew him, came
back and said to Catherine, as he opened her door:

"I have arranged that you shall be taken straight home from here."

"Can't I.. ."

"No, you cannot," he said shortly. "I will arrange everything

myself. I should not have taken you with me - I have never
regretted anything so much."

By now he was putting her into another car. She looked up at him
through the open window space, saw smouldering grey eyes and a
set mouth which forbade her to say anything more. In some way
she had badly jolted something deep within him; he had a tight, icy
look, and without another word he turned away as if he didn't want
to see her again. Looking sternly ahead, he drove off.

The garage owner started his own car, gave Catherine a breezy,
"Ce jeune homme - peut-etre que deja il est mart!" and drove her
out towards Pontrieux.

It was as Catherine entered the Villa Chaussy that she looked at

her watch for the first time since leaving the Sellier villa. It was
five minutes to nine. Slowly, conscious of a sharp and heavy pain
in her back just below the armpit, she went up the staircase.
Quietly she looked into Timothy's room, saw with dull relief that
he was sleeping soundly with Beanie beside him.

Feeling a little ill from reaction and the jarring pain in her back,
she came softly from Timothy's room and opened the door into her
own bedroom. She walked in with a weary hand over her eyes,
closed the door... and only then became aware that the light was
on. And that Lucille d'Esperez was comfortably and gracefully
seated in the deep chair beside the richly curtained window.
CHAPTER FIVE

LUCILLE was smiling, and she looked very lovely in a scarlet crepe
dress. The narrow diamante buckles on her slim black shoes
scintillated in the glow of the reading lamp which also cast raven
lights over the silky dark hair. If she had posed herself for a colour
photograph she could not have chosen a more vivid dress or a
better foil than the gold curtain at the back of her silver-grey
damask chair. But it was very unlikely that she was posing at this
moment; she had no need or desire to impress her beauty upon
Catherine.

"Ah, so you have returned," she said, not moving. "It must be
nearly two hours since we had word that you were detained
amongst the mountains with the fascinating doctor." Curiously, she
inspected the green and white print dress which had looked so
springlike when Catherine had got into it this afternoon. "You have
been exploring... in the dark?"

"No. It's a long story. Finding you here is rather a surprise,

madame."

"Did you think I knew nothing about this house? I know it very
well. When Leon gave a house party at Christmas time I was his
guest here for two weeks."

"It merely seemed a little strange to find you in my room."

"I suppose that is possible." Lucille gave her another long

considering glance. "I had not noticed it before, but it seems you
pale-skinned redheads do not wear well in this climate. You find
our heat too much?"

"I'm rather tired. Did you want to see me about something?"

Lucille's smile hardened. "Not that tone, please. You are simply
the daughter-in-law here, not the daughter. Yes, I have something
to discuss with you."

"With me?" Catherine's brain had gone slightly foggy. "I can't
imagine what it could be. Won't tomorrow do?"

"No, it will not. Tonight it was easy for me to come up here

because Leon has two business friends with him and he was very
willing for me to look in upon the child during your absence.
Another night there may not be the same excuse." Her eyes, in the
lamplight, were points of jet between dark lashes. "That was great
luck - your position here. I have heard that you are ordering
dresses and lingerie from Nice. You live here in great luxury, and I
presume you are most happy to do so."

"Luxury doesn't mean quite so much to me as it does to you,

madame," said Catherine, with some difficulty. She was bone tired
and merely to look at the woman made her feel worse. "What,
exactly, do you want?"

"An understanding with you," said Lucille, sliding back behind the
bland smile. "Before you came, everything was clear between
Leon and me. We are great friends, and it was accepted that some
time..." she lifted her shoulders. "One does not have to paint it in
black and white for a woman of your shrewdness. I will simply say
that I had no doubts, no doubts at all."

Catherine came further into the room, stepped out of her shoes,
bent to pick them up and straightened painfully. "And now you do
have them?" she asked. "Not because of me, surely?"

"Precisely because of you," replied Lucille, without apparent

rancour. "You know, I was with Leon when he heard that his son
had crashed."
A shiver ran down Catherine's spine. "Were you? How did he take
it?"

"He said very little, but when he learned of the existence of your
child and of the will naming him as guardian, the boy became the
focus of his life. I did not mind that, because Leon is not the sort of
man to spoil a grandson, and it would have given him a deep
interest. He is a man who cannot live without tremendous interests
and a degree of importance."

Catherine lowered herself into the other chair, dropped the shoes
again and leaned back gratefully. "It's not easy to see what you're
driving at," she said. "Under the circumstances, you couldn't part
Leon from his grandson, anyway. No one could. How has it
affected you?"

Lucille's tones became edged. "For many months we bargained

with you through the lawyer. .."

"We? It wasn't really anything to do with you."

"Things that concern Leon also concern me. I saw some of the
correspondence, and I formed an opinion of you, which I have not
changed." Her nostrils slightly dilated, she added, "It was clever of
you to appear uninterested in Leon's money, and really most
inspired to use a proportion of it in England, just for the boy. It
made Leon feel you were genuine, at least."

"I'm glad of that."

"You will be less pleased when you have heard all I have to say."
Lucille noticed that her own hands were tight, and she relaxed
them deliberately. "I am going to demand that you stop this
ridiculous opposition to everything Leon suggests for the child."
Catherine's mouth was dry and she was beginning to feel empty.
She really wasn't up to coping with this woman tonight; but Lucille
sat there, like a sleek and watchful animal - a very beautiful animal
- and it seemed that Catherine would have to deal with the
situation somehow.

She made a careful attempt. "I don't oppose everything. Leon takes
Timothy out two or three times a week, and I don't even know
what happens on those days."

"You know very well," Lucille contradicted flatly. "If Leon put
into practice the ideas he has for the child there would be babyish
weeping and appeals to Maman! He has no wish to be harsh or to
be regarded as a tyrant, but more than anything in the world he
wants the boy to grow up brave and strong. At present that is an
impossibility because of your resistance."

Catherine had a glimmering of comprehension. "You feel that

Leon is too absorbed in Timothy - is that it? If I were to agree to
Leon's having his own way, the challenge would be removed and
he'd be more free for... for you."

"That is a little crude, ma chere," said Lucille, "but it is near the

truth. Before you came here I felt that you had your price. It
seemed to be accepted by Leon that you had pursued his son
because you knew he was the heir of Leon Verender. Eh bien," she
shrugged understandingly, "why should a woman not safeguard
her future? I think no less of you for that."

"Thank you very much."

Lucille disregarded Catherine's retort. "But now you are trying to

prove something else to your father-in-law, that you were truly
devoted to his son and are an adoring mother. It is, perhaps, a good
line to take - for you. But it is likely to be a protracted business,
and I cannot wait so long." She gave a charming, ruthless smile.
"To be honest, I am in great financial difficulty, and even my
dressmaker is becoming a little uneasy about my promise that soon
I would not only pay my debts but there would be lavish ordering
for a trousseau."

"You can't blame me for your own extravagant spending."

"With me, it is not extravagance, it is a necessity for my way of

life. And I do blame you, most certainly. Before we learned of the
existence of your child I was sure that within six months Leon
would find he needed me here as his hostess and companion. Then
came the news, and a fresh world opened up for him - a son in his
later years, what priceless good luck! Everything else was swept
from his mind." She caught herself up on this, spread her hands
and said evenly, "We remained close, Leon and I, but he was
absorbed in this new character of his, the grandfather. Even in that
he was still a business man, taking his time over a big deal. He
wanted the child, but not you."

The final words were spoken with a sort of deadly quietness, but
they echoed into the silence that followed. Catherine leaned
forward with one arm along her knee; her glance traced the carpet
patterning with unnecessary intensity.

"I've been over most of this with Leon," she said at last, tiredly,
"and he accepts the fact that nothing in the world would make me
give up Timothy. He's been good enough to say that he feels
responsible for me as well as for Timothy, which was comforting,
even though I don't need it. I do realise how you're placed,
madame, but if your trouble is only financial, why not tell Leon?
I'm sure he ..
"You are mad!" For the first time the vixen showed through in
Lucille's expression. "Do you know so little of the world - or are
you being insulting? I have accepted gifts from Leon - an evening
bag, gloves, perfume, a case of Paris cosmetics - but I am not an
ingnue, to tell him my troubles through tears. What would be his
opinion of a woman who gathers debts in order to preserve a
facade? I could not possibly let him know the state of my affairs!"

Catherine sighed. "I honestly fail to see how I can help you!"

Lucille stood up, abruptly for her. She looked tall and
commanding, very sure of herself. "You can stop being
obstructive. Take the boy to the riding master, have him taught
gymnastics, insist that he go off to school every day. Soothe Leon
into knowing that he is having his own way, and very soon the boy
will become less important. Leon enjoys this war with you. Do you
know that?"

"I don't enjoy it myself, but I'm certainly not going to throw
Timothy to the wolves simply because he's an obstacle to your
ambitions. I intend to go on teaching him myself, and to give him
all the exercise he needs either in the garden or down on the beach.
As for the riding, if it takes him ten years to become friendly with
horses I shan't care; I won't have him forced into a nightmarish
horror of such an ordinary animal as a pony!"

Lucille's mouth was a thin red line, her long, pointed face was pale
and controlled. "Before you came," she said, her accent
pronounced, "I intended to make a friend of you. I imagined we
would be a household - the four of us - that the child would always
be there, but that you, being young, would go off to house parties
in other towns and eventually find a husband. I would have had no
enmity for the child, and it would have pleased me that Leon
should find great satisfaction in his education." She gestured.
"That is what I would have offered you; a home for the boy, any
assistance you might need in finding a husband, and a grand,
sophisticated background."

Catherine eased back into her chair and then stood up. "I'm sorry. I
just don't happen to be the sort of person you expected. I do
appreciate how you feel, though. You were here long before I was,
and we've turned up at a rather crucial time in your affairs and
more or less caused a halt in them. There's nothing I can do about
it now, though."

"There is much you can do!"

Catherine shook her head. "No, there's nothing. I can't change the
way I feel about everything, and I certainly can't allow people who
have no knowledge or experience of how we lived in England to
dictate how Timothy shall be treated now. He's not just a small
piece of humanity who can be moulded into any shape one fancies.
He's sensitive and very much an individual, and it's quite possible
that he'll never take to the tough things that Leon's so keen on."

"So?" With a dangerous glint in her eyes, "And what of me?"

Perhaps Catherine was too weary, by now, to care very much what
she said. She shrugged. "If you and Leon are fond of each other,
our coming shouldn't make much difference, should it? In any
case, I dare say you're very well able to take care of yourself. I'm
sorry, madame."

There was a heavy pause. Then Lucille nodded her head, jerkily.
"In making an enemy of me you are much less wise than you
think. I will see to it that you become even more sorry!"

She went out swiftly, the door thudded behind her. Catherine
pushed a hand round the back of her neck and massaged gently,
with her eyes closed. Her head ached from her nape to the crown,
and the burning pain in her back had spread as far as the spine.
There was nothing that time wouldn't heal, but the nagging pain
was a little hard to bear, alongside Lucille's chill selfishness. But
the scene with Madame d'Esperez would have to wait till
tomorrow for dissection. All Catherine wanted now was her bed.
She was lying between the sheets in the darkness when the
telephone rang. She leant out and picked up the receiver, prepared
to tell Antoine that she would be needing nothing tonight, thank
you. But the voice that spoke was Philippe's, cool and impersonal.

"I telephoned earlier to ensure that you had reached the villa
safely. Leon said Lucille had seen you and you were well, but I
have naturally been a little anxious."

"I'm fine," she said. "How is the young man?"

"An amputation, I am afraid. His condition is serious."

"I do hope you got to him in time."

"I, too." He drew an audible breath. "I must offer you an apology
for losing my temper. I am accustomed, in such circumstances, to
being obeyed."

"Think nothing of it," she said politely.

"I understand you are in your room. Please go early to bed with a
warm drink. Bonne nuit."

Feeling bleak, she put down tile telephone. He'd sounded cold as
the Alps, and it was just as well. She had better keep clear of
Philippe Sellier.

*
Catherine had no option but to spend the next few days very
quietly. Almost any kind of movement made her wince, and rather
than have others notice the awkward way she sat or the effort it
needed to get up and walk, she remained upstairs a good deal of
the time, giving Timothy more than his usual number of lessons in
his sitting-room and reading to him when other things palled. She
got Louise to take him for walks, but occasionally sat outside with
him herself. Leon made only one attempt to take Timothy out with
him, and it failed because the little boy, for the first time since he
had come to the villa, had gone up to have lunch with Michael
Dean, and inadvertently gone to sleep afterwards on Michael's
porch. Leon had sent Louise to find him.

To Catherine, who sat in the patio, he said, "In my mail there was
an invitation for the boy to spend a day with those friends of mine
in Cannes. Their children are several years older than Tim, and
they have a small yacht of their own; he can go out with them."

"A sailing yacht?"

"The real thing - not a sprog. They're pretty good with it too. It
won't hurt the boy to get the feel of a slanting deck."

"Not at all, so long as he's anchored."

"Bah! What do you know about sailing ships?"

"Almost nothing, but I've watched them. It's not much use going
on one unless you're strong and have your wits about you. I'd say
Timothy will be ready when he's about nine or ten."

"We'll send him down to Cannes and see how he makes out."

"We won't, you know."

Her voice was so unemotional that Leon didn't take in what she
had said for a minute or so. He stood there on the flagstones, his
heavy shoulders square in the light linen jacket, his arrogant head
thrown back as he looked at her from under those thick brows.

"What did you say?" he barked.

Catherine was tempted to say "You heard!" But she resisted it, and
tried the usual form of reasoning. "Can't you please be a little
patient? Timothy's already doing lots of things he's never done
before. You've seen him riding his bicycle round the house..."

"A child of two can ride a bicycle!"

"He's started climbing a bit, and the other day he even cracked one
of those big stone pineapples down by the lily-pond."

"What did he do that for?" he shouted. "Those damned ornaments

have lasted more than a hundred years."

She smiled. "He couldn't help it - the bike got out of hand. I
thought you'd approve.

Leon didn't smile back, but his tones lowered. "Thought you'd put
one over on me then, didn't you? I'll bet you broke the thing
yourself." He threw out a hand impatiently. "It's your outlook I
quarrel with - it's niggling and womanish, and no good to a
growing boy. Can he read yet?"

"He's still four, you know."

"Can he write his name?"

"He can print it - yours, too."

"Flattering, I'm sure. But I'm not very concerned about that side of
things. In fact, I agree with Lucille that you spend too much time
on brainwork and not enough" on manly pastimes. In a few months
he can go to school - until then you can cut down on the nursery
school routine and try him out in other directions. And you'd better
do it," in measured syllables, "or he'll find the going pretty hard
when he gets with other boys."

Catherine didn't have to answer that, for Louise appeared, crossing

the patio with Timothy fast asleep in her arms. Louise had done
wrong, of course. She should either have roused the child and
made him walk with her or left him where she had found him; but
probably she had decided that having been sent by Leon for the
boy she had better bring him, and rousing him at the hour when he
usually rested no doubt went against the grain. So there she was,
with the slim little boy across her arms; his fair head was against
her upper arm and his brown lashes lay darkly against the flushed
skin of his cheek. He looked as sweet in sleep as only a child can.

Leon's face was a study in distaste and despair. "Good God," he

said. "If it weren't for the nose I wouldn't own him." And he strode
away.

"Monsieur has decided not to take the child with him?" asked
Louise apprehensively.

"I'm afraid he has, Louise." Catherine smiled at her. "Put Timothy

in the long chair, will you? He can finish his sleep there. And don't
worry about Monsieur. He doesn't mean half the things he says."

"He looked very angry. We of the staff take care not to displease
him."

"I don't like to do it myself, but sometimes it's necessary."

Louise straightened from making Timothy comfortable. "In
Madame's place," she said, with a circumspect glance across the
garden, "I would say oui and nan to Monsieur. It would do no
harm to appear to agree always."

"I can't say I'll give in without doing so. Timothy's happiness
depends on my handling of his grandfather, so I have to do what I
think is best."

Louise lifted her shoulders. "As you wish, madame. In France the
father or grandfather makes decisions about the children, but then
we French women use our influence in other ways. None of us are
like the English in these things. May I bring you some coffee?"

"No, thank you. I'll have tea at four. Do you know if there are to be
guests for dinner tonight?"

"Two messieurs, I believe. Tomorrow there will be Madame

d'Esperez and Monsieur le Docteur."

Catherine nodded her thanks for the information and Louise went
into the house. Timothy slept on for an hour, and watching him
Catherine knew a sad-sweet pang. He was so small and
unknowing. Arguments raged about him, he was at the centre of
Lucille's intrigues, and she herself was bound, for all his minor
years, to live wherever Leon decreed. One delightful small boy
was shaping the course of the lives of three people. Whatever
happened, he must never know.

He awoke gently, quite unsurprised to find himself outdoors. For

about a minute he stared at the striped awning of the lounger in
which he lay. Then he said, "There's a fly with red legs up there.
Why has it got red legs?"
"It's that sort of fly," Catherine answered tranquilly. "Did you have
a nice lunch with Michael?"

"Mmmm. Some fish and salad. He played the gramophone."

"So you enjoyed yourself?"

"Mmmm." He suddenly lifted his head and looked at her, "I didn't
say thank you and goodbye!"

"I believe you went to sleep instead. You can thank Michael next
time you see him. Like to go indoors for a wash?"

"I'm going for a ride on my bike," he said, and slid sideways from
the long chair.

It was only to Catherine, who had known how quiet and obedient
he had been in England, that his small new independence was
obvious. Very gradually, he was feeling his feet Here, becoming
accustomed to the freedom of eight acres of garden, the possession
of the new bicycle, the power of the muscles in his legs when he
climbed a paling or scrambled over a steep rockery.

"Be careful on the corners, darling," she said, and decided not to
watch him closely; it was apt to bring her heart into her throat.

When tea arrived, Michael Dean came with it. "Mind if I have a
cup with you?" he asked, lowering himself to a wrought-iron chair
beside the table. "How do you like our heat?"

"It's bearable, but hard on the gardens. Leon must spend a fortune
on water alone." She poured tea for him, pushed the cup across the
table and followed it with the sugar bowl. "Thanks for having
Timothy to lunch. Whose idea was it?"
"His, of course. I met him up the garden and he made the
proposition, so I sent down a message, Do I strike you as a type to
spend my leisure hours with kids? For your information, he called
me a clot."

"A clot? Why?"

"Probably because I called him one the other day and he took a
fancy to the word. He's blossoming."

"For heaven's sake don't teach him any swear words. He may use
them on Leon."

Michael laughed. "The old boy would love it. I should think you
get a bit bored with it all, though. I mean, seeing Leon every day,
and having to dine with those bankers and aristocrats every night.
What I'm getting at is, if you'd like a gay evening I'd be happy to
escort you. Leon wouldn't make anything of it, and I'd be grateful."

"What a sweet way of putting it, Michael. I'll let you know."

"No time like the present. What about tonight?"

"Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow."

"It's a date," he said promptly. "I'll take you to the Casino."

"We'll see. Aren't you so busy these days?"

"Not quite. Even Leon slacks off a bit in the hot season. By the
way, there's an item I think you ought to know. He's ordering a
diamond necklace for the d'Esperez. So it looks as if it won't be
long before you have a stepmother-in- law."
Catherine dropped the biscuit she had started to nibble, flicked a
crumb from the beige pleated skirt. "Are you sure about that - the
necklace?"

"Sure I'm sure. It's what she's been waiting for. What's the betting
she won't have it copied and sell the original to pay her bills?
Seriously, though, it's going to mean a few changes round here.
Fortunately, I have very little to do with the house, but you're
going to feel it. Lucille doesn't like you, I'm afraid. Jealous
because you got right in first go, and she's been angling for a
couple of years."

"That's discerning of you, Michael." She paused. "When is the

necklace to arrive?"

"He's considering designs, so the official order may not go out till
next week, but the jeweller gave delivery time as a few days." He
drank some tea and levered a currant biscuit from under a
macaroon. "Well, it had to come, I suppose. The wonder is that he
hasn't married before. I'll bet there have been plenty after his lolly.
Lucille will look pretty good in diamonds and chinchilla, and that's
probably all the old chap wants - someone to smother with
Verender cash, and display to the goggling eyes of his pals."

She said, a little thinly, "I knew some sort of relationship existed
between Leon and Lucille, but I thought our coming here had put
him off it, a bit."

"Not on your life. Leon can handle a dozen propositions at once;

having you here wouldn't make the smallest difference to any
plans he might have about Lucille. If she thinks it might, she's not
so cute as I thought she was. Anyway, the woman is coming into
her own - or perhaps I should say Leon's. She'll spend for him!" He
chose another biscuit, and chattily changed the topic. "I see our
doctor had his name in the paper. Some chap was half buried under
his hovel and Dr. Sellier brought him down to the hospital.
Philippe has kicked up a fuss because derelict houses are left
standing after they've been condemned. Chap lost his foot."

Catherine did not have to answer. Timothy rode up, pink- cheeked,
wild-haired and hungry for biscuits and milk. He sat at the low
table and stared with a faraway look in his blue eyes at Michael.

"Well?" demanded Michael belligerently. "What can you see?"

Timothy blinked, finished his milk and lifted his little bicycle up
on to its tyres. "One of your eyes is bigger than the other," he said,
and rode away.

"I asked for that," Michael muttered. "I don't get kids at all. Other
men can frighten them, but they treat me as if I were the radio or a
garden bench."

"It's a backhanded sort of compliment," Catherine said. "More

tea?"

"I'll have to go; I've a few things to finish before five. Don't forget
about tomorrow night."

"I haven't promised. Do you gamble at the Casino?"

"Can't resist it," he groaned. "Cleans me out every time, but I love
it. So long."

A maid came for the tea things and Catherine stirred herself to take
a walk. Perhaps her back did feel a little easier this afternoon.

Next morning she came down rather earlier than usual, and she
found Leon strolling along the paved path that led to the pool.
Distinguished-looking in light slacks and a flawless white shirt
with a blue scarf knotted at the throat, he was moving quite slowly
with his head bent as though he were preoccupied. When he saw
her he did not stop and wait for her, but as she joined him, he said:

"Good morning. What can I do for you?"

She smiled, a little vexedly. "It's your own fault if I come to you
only when I want something. You've never yet encouraged me to
be friendly. You say it's what you want, but you don't do anything
about it."

"I'm no good with women, especially young ones. What's the

trouble?"

"No trouble. It's just something I thought of yesterday, when I

heard that Philippe Sellier had been invited for dinner tonight. You
always invite him alone, don't you?"

"Lucille is coming, as well."

"Yes, but I mean, you don't ask Philippe to bring Yvette or ... or
some other woman?"

"I've always figured he needed a change from Yvette. What are

you getting at - the Latour girl?"

Her throat felt a bit strained as she answered brightly, "Yes ...
Marcelle Latour. Philippe is a bit sweet on her, I think - so his
sister says - and I thought it might be a ... a helpful gesture if you
asked them here together sometimes. With Yvette there, they can't
be alone at Philippe's house."

"They won't be alone here, but I know what you mean."

"Can it be managed?"

The lower lip jutted characteristically. "Anything can be managed.

I'll ring Philippe and ask him to bring her."

"D'you suppose he'll think it strange?"

"He probably would if he thought you were the one who'd

suggested it, but I'll put it to him casually. Though I might tell you
that if Philippe wanted to see a woman alone he wouldn't wait to
have it arranged by someone else. He's down in Nice almost every
day - you can be sure he often has a tte--tte with the girl." He
gave her the beetling look, "What's it to you, anyway?"

"Nothing at all."

"There's something back of it. If you've an idea that Philippe may

be getting uncomfortably interested in you, you can forget it. The
Latour girl is much more in his line. She's French, has the right
sort of background and knows something of the arts. If you
remember, Philippe and I have that same bond."

The brutal forthrightness of his thinking left Catherine weak, but

she gave no sign of it. "I've no personal reason for mentioning it,"
she said. "The invitation to Mademoiselle Latour has to come from
you, so I thought I'd catch you early, and suggest it."

"Isn't there anyone you'd like to invite occasionally, on your own

account? You live here now - you can do as you like."

"Thank you." She kept surprise from her voice. " I haven't made
any English friends yet. We seem a little cut off from the English
colony."
"The younger set, perhaps. I'll see what I can do about it." In the
growl he invariably assumed sooner or later when speaking to her,
he added, "You don't look so bright as you used to. I know it's hot,
but you're young enough to stand any amount of heat, especially
when there's a pool and the sea to cool off in. Even the boy sticks
it fairly well, though I must say I don't care for that pinky-brown
colour of his. A boy should tan the colour of mahogany."

"He's fair-skinned."

"Well, we won't go into that. It's you we're talking about now. You
lie about and let the heat get at you, and it's no good to you."

Catherine wondered how Leon would react to a blow from a fallen

rock; with a hide like his he probably wouldn't have felt it at all.
"Maybe it was the heat, but I'm coming round from it now," she
said. "In fact, I may go out tonight, if you don't mind."

"Mind! You should go out every night. Dancing, theatres, the

Casino. The night life in Nice is manufactured for people like you.
If you need any more.-.."

"I don't. You've been very generous, Leon."

"Rubbish. I only ever give away what I've got too much of. About
tonight - you can't go out alone, you know."

"Michael Dean asked me to go to the Casino with him."

"Oh, Dean," disparagingly. "Well, he's all right for the first time,
but don't you encourage him. He's a good secretary, but he's no
imagination and will never have a penny in the bank. Champagne
and chemin-de-fer; that's all he's good for away from a desk, and
he doesn't make much of a showing at either." He looked at his
watch. "I've a man coming to see me at nine-thirty and I want to
look into his file before he arrives. Go on and take your walk - and
don't dawdle. I can't stand the sight of a woman who moves like a
sick hen."

Catherine would have liked to reply to that one, but instead She
smiled and walked on. But the smile faded, and not only because
her back was still stiff. She was beginning to feel low-spirited and
discouraged. Her own future was a grey blank.

Lucille married to Leon, and taking command in the house;

Catherine and Timothy at her disposal, to do with as she wished.
Philippe ... engaged to Marcelle, married to her. Well, that was
probably right for him, and certainly had nothing whatever to do
with Catherine Verender. She mustn't let the peculiarities of her
own character obscure the main issue which, she was convinced,
had more to do with Lucille d'Esperez than anyone else. One thing
she was certain about: at no time would she allow Lucille to have
any sort of authority over Timothy.

The day passed in its usual way. Evening came, Timothy did
somersaults on his bed and eventually lay down for sleep.
Catherine put on a flowered silk dress, and at seven-fifteen she
went down to meet Michael at the front door. In a white dinner
jacket he looked breezy and cocksure, and when she told him he
could drive It was all he needed to complete the atmosphere;
himself and a good-looking young woman on their way to high
jinks in the gayest city on the Cote.

They were halfway along the short drive when another car
appeared between the tall posts. Michael slowed, so did the other
driver, and as they drew abreast they almost stopped. Philippe
inclined his head and smiled distantly; his companion was more
forthcoming - she leaned forward and lifted her hand to Catherine,
her smile wide and secure.
"Well, well," said Michael, as they slipped out on to the road.
"She's quite a dream, that girl. There's something about youngish
French women that gets me like a biff in the ribs. They settle down
marvellously and make superb wives, I believe. I imagine the fact
that Philippe is coming out into the open with the girl means he's
on the point of popping the question. Why do you suppose he's
waited so long?"

"He's only known her about six months."

"But, good lord, a man like Philippe would know how he felt about
her before this." He pondered the subject. "I reckon he's been
letting her get the art out of her system. She's reached her goal -
one of her little knick-knacks in an exhibition - and now she's
ready to be a wife. That was a funny smile she gave you - sort of
superior. Have you ever spoken to her?"

"I met her at one of Yvette's tea parties."

Catherine recalled that moment, as she had left the villa with
Philippe; something hard in Marcelle's expression, even though
she was smilingly assuring Philippe that she would ring her cousin
and tell her not to expect her home till late. Philippe had not gone
home for dinner that night - a common enough happening in the
life of a bachelor doctor. Perhaps Marcelle had heard that Philippe
had not been alone on his excursion into the mountains. Not that it
mattered. She had what she wanted now.

Michael enjoyed the dinner on a palm-enclosed terrace above the

black sparkle of the Mediterranean, and the subsequent walk
beneath a warm, star-studded sky to the Casino, the brilliant,
feverish throng that circulated about the tables, the cries of the
croupiers, the sudden silences, the babble of people caught up in
the tense excitement of staking large sums to win or lose larger
sums. Good-looking, casual, he seemed to fit into the scene and
enhance it.

But for Catherine the evening was not a success. She had no
instinct for gambling or watching others gamble, but in other
circumstances she might have loved the strangeness and opulence,
the pulsing feel of the place, the imperative, "Mesdames et
messieurs, faites vos jeux!" Tonight she just wasn't in the mood for
it, but she didn't spoil Michael's pleasure by telling him so. Still, it
was rather a relief, at something after one, to be on her way back
to the villa. She drove herself, while Michael, a wee bit sozzled
and consequently loose about the joints, lolled in his corner and
deplored the erratic turn of the roulette wheel.

For two days all was quiet. Catherine gingerly tested her back
muscles in the swimming pool and found them almost recovered,
so that she could give Timothy a brief swimming lesson there. But
he disliked the pool because his feet could not touch bottom,
though he liked using the wide marble surround as a bicycle track.

They returned to the house, showered and dressed, Timothy in the

short shorts that French boys wear and a white shirt, and Catherine
in a pink sleeveless linen. Together they went down to the patio for
a brief rest before lunch. And there they found Leon and Philippe,
taking a drink in the shade of the trees. Philippe bowed and set a
chair for her.

To Timothy he said, "You have had a good morning, mon petit?

Plenty of fun?"

"I been swimming."

"You like swimming?"

"I like the water. May I have some lemonade, please?"

"Why are you afraid to swim?" asked Leon. "Your mother swims -
she wouldn't let you drown."

Timothy's expression remained painfully blank. "May I have some

lemonade, Grandpa, please?"

"Why are you afraid to swim?"

"He's not afraid," said Catherine quickly. "He just hasn't got the
knack yet. Timothy, go into the kitchen and ask Louise for
lemonade. You may as well stay there for lunch."

"Why shouldn't he have lunch with us, for once? You can stay,
can't you, Philippe?"

Philippe hesitated, then shrugged. "If you will tell Antoine to

telephone my house, so that they know where I may be found, if
necessary." He had half filled a glass for Catherine, and now
leaned forward to give it to her. But he looked away from, her as
he spoke to Leon. "The child no doubt eats more happily in the
kitchen. I should let him go."

"I don't care for the idea - never have." The piercing blue gaze
rested once more on the round little face and the fair curly hair.
"Like to go out with me this afternoon, Tim?"

The child's baby-red lips parted as he swallowed, "Well, I... I'm

going to rest first, and then,.. well.,,"

"You don't want to go with me?"

"Yes, but..."

"Go on," said Leon curtly. "Get your lunch!"

Catherine had started up and instinctively her hand had slipped
down behind Timothy's head and clasped his shoulder. "I'll go with
him."

"He knows the way," said Leon. "Sit down, Catherine."

She ignored him, took Timothy's hand and went with him into the
house. The little boy drank cold lemonade thirstily, pouted wet lips
as he looked up at her.

"Must I go out with Grandpa this afternoon? I don't want to."

"Don't you worry. I'll speak to him about it. Louise will give you
your lunch and take you upstairs afterwards. Everything's all right,
darling. I'll see you later."

She gave him a quick kiss on the brow, a reassuring pat, and went
back to the others. She leant back in the chair, picked up her glass
and looked at Leon.

But before she could speak he said, "All right, I've heard it ten
thousand times before! There's one thing you'd better get straight,
young lady. When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed. That
child will never grow up if you're going to smooth every awkward
moment for him. Afraid of horses, afraid to swim! He's as finicky
and timid as a girl!"

"He's improving," she said, "and you shouldn't expect more. You
can say what you like to me, but I won't have you speak to
Timothy as you do. That's why he doesn't want to go out with you
- because you expect far more than he can hope to give."

"When he's out with me I take very little notice of him. Do you
think I want people to notice that my grandson, my grandson, is
scared of every new thing he sees? Each time I hope he'll behave
like a boy, but not he! And I've come to the conclusion that he'll
have to have the fright knocked out of him."

"My friend," said Philippe in level tones, "you are dealing with an
ordinary sensitive child, not with a young animal."

"At his age, I was a young animal."

"This boy is not like you - he is more like his mother."

"I haven't noticed that she's scared of much!"

"She is older and has built up her defence. And do not be so sure
that her courage is of your kind. Sheer physical and mental
strength are necessary to a man like you - but a woman's courage
rests in her character."

"She's obstinate," said Leon. "To look at her, you wouldn't think
she had the stubbornness and kick of a mule, would you? Too
delicate, you'd say, and you'd be wrong! Where that child's
concerned, she's got a ridiculous set of values and a cast-iron will."

"I have seen," said Philippe drily.

"Stop discussing me as if I were in China,"' exclaimed Catherine.

"Where did you want to take Timothy this afternoon, Leon?"

"I wasn't going to take him myself - he was going with Lucille and
some of her friends to a boys' boxing tournament. But forget it,"
violently. "He'd probably have nightmares after it. Play ring-o'-
roses with him in the garden, gather shells with him on the beach,
stuff him with ice-cream and television! But I'm telling you now,"
as he leaned forward and tapped a hard finger on the table between
them, "that I'll make a man of him if I have to lock you up in your
room while I do it!"
"You have made your point, Leon," said Philippe. "Guard your
blood pressure."

Fortunately, the luncheon trolley was wheeled out just then, and
they had to transfer to a dining table which had been set nearby.
By the time they had been served with chilled consomm and the
meats and salads had been set within easy reach, Leon had
regained his normal composure. But in spite of an appearance of
determined serenity, Catherine felt more than a little sick, and not
only because this was the first time in ten or twelve days that Leon
had broken into a tirade against her handling of Timothy.

Philippe had put in his reasonable comments, had helped all three
of them past the incendiary moments and suavely guided Leon into
a discussion about the new trends in Chinese art. But an icy
reserve was obvious in his attitude towards her. He was polite,
charmingly anxious that she should eat well and try the wine, and
when her fingers quivered slightly on the stem of the glass she saw
him look at her face critically, with concern. But it was
professional concern. For him, their slight advance towards
friendship had halted, and the knowledge caused a hollow ache of
loneliness in Catherine.

The meal ended and they moved back to the other chairs.
Catherine poured coffee, accepted a cigarette.

Philippe said, "So you tried the Casino the other night. What did
you think of it?"

"It was exciting and strange.''

"Did you play?"

"No, but Michael did. He thought I might bring him luck, but I
didn't."
"Do not be despondent about that. There is a superstition that the
woman who brings luck at the tables is unlucky herself. Dean is a
good companion in such a place, no?"

"Yes, he's great fun."

It was as though they were speaking through plate glass - that

barrier which Philippe maintained so expertly between himself and
all women ... except Marcelle Latour, no doubt. Catherine felt she
couldn't bear any more of it. She pressed out her cigarette, dusted
ash from her skirt and stood up. Philippe, too, got to his feet and
looked at his watch. And then all three turned their attention
towards the drive. A taxi was crawling between the shrubs, to
brake on the path quite close to the patio. A man got out of it,
thrust some notes at the driver and waved him away.

Catherine stared. And suddenly the weight of loneliness lifted and

her heart almost sang its relief. She ran across the flagstones,
gripped the man's coat-sleeves and gazed up at the rugged, very
English face. She laughed tremulously, and a tear spilled down
each cheek as he bent and kissed her forehead before putting his
arms about her.

"Oh, Hugh," she said huskily. "You don't know how much I've
needed you!"

It seemed he was normally an undemonstrative man, for almost at

once he disengaged himself and, walking with Catherine, he
looked beyond her at Leon Verender. She slipped her hand into
Hugh's and said:

"You must meet Timothy's grandfather. Leon, this is Hugh

Manning. He's a second cousin of mine and Timothy's godparent."
And, quickly, "Where is Philippe?"
"He remembered an appointment."

"But..."

Then she heard the car start up at the side of the house, and it
appeared on the drive. Philippe raised a hand and was gone.
CHAPTER SIX

HUGH MANNING had booked in at the auberge on the main road

near Pontrieux, and to Leon's offhanded statement that he could
stay at the Villa Chaussy and welcome he returned a polite refusal.

"I came here to see Catherine, not to land myself on you," he said
in his blunt fashion. "I'm on leave, actually, and the inn will be a
good centre for touring the district. Thank you for the thought,
though."

Leon gave him a long measuring look, took a pull at his cigar and
said, "Any relation of Catherine's is welcome here. But don't
believe everything she tells you. And don't lose sight of the fact
that a godfather has no pull whatsoever in a court of law." He
nodded and went into the house.

Hugh Manning, thickset, sober-eyed and going a little grey at the

temples though his crisp hair remained a good chestnut colour
above the brow, looked earnestly at the pale and delicate features
of the young woman who sat close to him, under the garden
umbrella.

"I had to come," he said. "The tone of your letter was too light,
Catherine; it made me horribly uneasy. And the very thought of
your coming here to Leon Verender .., well, I just couldn't take it.
You must have had trouble or he wouldn't have spoken as he did to
me just now. And you don't look all right to me. What in the world
has been going on?"

"Don't let's talk about it for a bit; it's so lovely to have you here
that I simply want to soak it in. Wait till Timothy sees you! He
may not remember you, but we've often talked about Uncle Hugh.
It's so good to have you here."
"I'm darned glad to be here." He eased his collar. "Do you know
that it's hotter in France than in Hong Kong? We get it more
steamy, but this is grilling."

Darling Hugh, with his prosaic speech and rare smile. "You said
you're on leave," she demanded urgently. "Is that true? How long
do you have?"

"I had some overseas leave mounting up, but I heard that they'll be
transferring me back to England in about a year, so I was quite
happy to take three months' leave now."

"Three months! That's wonderful. Hugh ... I still can't believe it's
you."

"It's me, all right. Old Faithful, who couldn't set the Thames on fire
if they covered it with benzine and handed me a match factory. I'm
still managing Hewitt & Smith's agency and I shall probably stay
with the firm for ever."

"You're the one stable thing in my world. I've missed you more
even than I knew myself. You were always such a help when..."

The words halted and he said gently, "I wanted to come to you
when I heard about Ewart, but I don't suppose I could have done
much more for you than your family did. It was something you had
to get through on your own. Your letters from England sounded so
sensible, and it wasn't till I had the one you wrote from here that I
began to feel really disturbed. It was what you didn't say that -
worried me. There was almost nothing in it about Leon Verender,
and I knew how he'd treated Ewart when you two were married.
The very thought of your being at the mercy of some iron-hearted
old millionaire who wanted his pound of flesh - meaning
Timothy..." He sighed. "I had a couple of sleepless nights and then
put in for leave. They wouldn't release me till last week-end. I flew
over."

"I'm so grateful. It has been a bit wearing. Leon's a very hard man,
and he says abominable things to me in front of anyone who
happens to be around. Sometimes it's for show, but he's pretty
ruthless. And yet there are isolated moments when I don't mind
him at all."

"A man of his kind is bound to be a bit of a character, and I

suppose he trades on his own importance. What sort of things does
he say?"

Catherine tried to tell him, but when his brows came together she
found herself excusing Leon. "To him, I dare say, Timothy does
seem too good-looking and rather reluctant to try things out for
himself. You know how we lived in London, Hugh. He had to be
quiet indoors, to be taught care in crossing the roads, to keep off
the grass in certain parks, to take off wet shoes ... oh, a hundred
things that made him into a careful, polite little boy. Leon hoped
for a tough little delinquent who'd look exactly like himself."

Hugh smiled. "That sounds like an exaggeration."

"It's not. I hadn't been in the house five minutes before Leon began
talking about the marvellous future he wanted for Timothy, and the
merciless way he intended to prepare him for it. If Timothy cries
he takes it as a personal insult.- He doesn't know a thing about
boys."

"Because he never knew Ewart," Hugh said. "In a way I feel sorry
for him."

"Wait till you know him! He's a thundering big bully."

"But good heavens, there must be some way of showing him that
he can't suddenly take over your son. The boy's only four!"

"That's what I keep telling him, but it seems that he himself could
ride, swim, climb tall trees and sail a yacht before he was
Timothy's age. Somehow I've managed to scotch his more deadly
plans, but only this lunch-time he started again. He'd arranged for
Timothy to go to a boys' boxing tournament this afternoon and the
poor pet didn't want to go out with Grandpa." She was smiling a
little, but not happily, "I hate all this trouble about him, Hugh. I
want him to be just a happy little boy, half forgotten, so that he
feels free and can develop naturally."

"We'll have to see what we can do." He eased his collar again, and
went on carefully, "Of course, you know that there is one way you
could end all this. I know you were very fond of Ewart, even after
he let you down so badly and went back to the racing game, but,"
he adjusted his tie, "well, it's over a year now, and for a year or so
before that you and he..." He hesitated, and started a new sentence,
a little hurriedly. "Leon Verender would have to pipe down
somewhat if you married again."

"That possibility is rather remote."

"It needn't be." He was looking at her now. "Since you were a
schoolgirl you've meant a lot to me, and I'd love to look after you
and Timothy. I'm one of those chaps who regularly save a
proportion of their salary, so I've plenty to set us up in a place of
our own. There's nothing hasty about this."

She took his hand and gripped it tightly. "You're the sweetest man
I know," she said unsteadily, "but that's not the answer. We do
love each other, but not in a marrying way. We're the sort of
couple who can part and meet again a year later and still feel the
same. Lovers aren't like that;

they're very different. It's a splendid gesture, Hugh, but I couldn't

accept it."

"Don't be silly about this. If I seemed to dither a bit it was because

I've never proposed before, and I knew the way you'd take it, at
first. But let's be sane, my dear. I'm not one of those chaps who
can rush a woman off her feet, but that's not what you're wanting,
is it? You used to be like that when you were younger - knight-in-
armour stuff, stars in your eyes, and all the rest - but you've grown
up a lot since you were twenty-one. In those days, I wouldn't have
dared ask you to marry me."

"Hugh, please," she said, distressed for him. "I don't even want to
think about it. I'd love you to get married - I remember writing it to
you in one of my early letters to Hong Kong - but I... well, I
wouldn't do for you. We just don't feel that way."

"I do."

She shook her head jerkily. "No, you only think you do because
I'm in a muddle and marriage might get me out of it. If I'd stayed
on in England near my family you wouldn't have come home and
proposed like this."

He said doggedly, "Not right now, perhaps, but it would have

happened some time - if you were still free."

"There, you see?" She smiled at him a little mistily. "When you're
in love you don't hang about waiting for leave before you tie a
woman down. You put it in a letter, a telegram, anything - so long
as you get it said. In that sort of love there's a terrible urgency, a
compulsion to make sure of the other person. Don't you see?"
He sighed and said slowly, "I can see one thing very clearly.
You're still nearly twelve years younger than I am, and nothing
less than a terrific love affair would induce you to marry again. I
thought what I had to offer might be enough, but I ought to have
known better." He managed a smile. "I think it's because you're
different from any girl I've ever known that I've cared about you so
much. You had those lovely features and startling hair, and you
seemed such a gay and intelligent person to have as a cousin. I
suppose I'm really the sort of chap who should have married some
nice nondescript girl who'd happily drown in domesticity. Trouble
is, I'm too much that way myself. I never even look at a woman
unless she's quite different from others. You know," ruefully, "a
confirmed bachelor isn't always one by choice; often they've
passed through a period when they wanted marriage very much,
but the sort of woman who gravitated towards them didn't bear
comparison with her ideal."

"Ideals seldom exist," she said softly, "and they're a bit cold and
out of reach. If I were choosing a wife for you she wouldn't be
dull; she'd sparkle and know how to keep you guessing, and she
wouldn't be perfect by a long way. And because you're you, you'd
love her all the more for her imperfections ..." She stopped and
laughed a little. "I'm running away with myself because I've been
dammed up. Please don't let's talk about it any more - not for a
while, anyway. Tell me about Hong Kong."

But he hadn't much to tell her about his life in the East. Hugh
Manning was one of those Englishmen who lead the same routine
life however exotic their surroundings. Yes Hong Kong was very
interesting - rather crowded and busy, but there was plenty to do if
you were the sociable sort. Yes, he did belong to a club, but didn't
go there much; the firm's house was on the Peak, and he liked the
evenings up there. He had a few friends, of course. No, he hadn't
bothered about seeing the sights - saw enough on the daily ferry to
and from Kowloon. Catherine was trying to make him remember
more when Timothy came out. Eagerly, she watched him wander
towards them, a small boy in a clean white shirt and dark shorts,
his hair brushed over in a curl at one side.

Hugh said, in astonishment, "He's quite big. He looked much

smaller in the snap you sent. Hallo, Timothy. Do you remember
me?"

"You're Uncle Hugh," Timothy said. "We looked at your photo too
one day."

"You could try and be a little surprised to see me."

"Children are never surprised," said Catherine. "Shake hands with

Uncle Hugh, darling. He's come to Pontrieux for a holiday. We'll
all go for picnics together."

Timothy shook hands, eyed Hugh's thickish shoulders. "Do you

ride horses?"

"No. A game of golf is my maximum effort."

"Do you swim?"

"Sometimes. What about you?"

Timothy looked bored. "It's tea-time. I'll go and ask Louise for my
milk and biscuits."

"He's very self-possessed," Hugh commented, as Timothy went

towards the terrace. "And he looks wonderful."

"The self-possession is really a sort of defence, I'm afraid. I could

gradually make him confident in the water, but Leon keeps barking
at him. 'Can you swim yet?' - and he gets frightened all over again.
It's most disheartening."

"We'll have to do something about it. Have you been battling quite
alone with old Verender?"

"Not quite." She hesitated, and spoke non-committally, "There's a

Dr. Sellier - he was here when you arrived, but apparently he
couldn't stay to meet you. He's been helping me a little. You know
that game in which you play ball with someone and a third person
stands in the middle? It's been like that - but by no means a game!
Leon and I are starkly opposed on certain things, and Philippe ,.,
Dr. Sellier sort of keeps the balance. He's one of those annoying
creatures who sees all sides of a question. He thinks I should give
in on some points."

"But that might be fatal!"

"I don't know. He says I'm with Timothy too much, and it's true.
He also feels that it's wrong for my life to revolve round the boy."

"He should stick to his pills and injections. Timothy's all you've
got, and why shouldn't you be wrapped up in him? I'd better speak
to Leon Verender - as Timothy's godfather, I mean."

"Not yet, Hugh," she said quickly. "We'd better leave it for a few
days. Oh, here's the tea. After we've had it we'll all go down to the
beach for an hour. You'll love Pontrieux, Hugh. It hasn't changed
in the last two or three hundred years."

The comforting thing about Hugh, Catherine thought later, as they

got into the primrose car, was that from the moment you met him
again it was as though you'd never parted from him.
Gingerly, he touched the pastel blue leather. "Is this the old
man's?"

"No, it's mine - at least, it belongs to Leon's daughter-in- law. I

don't really exist here as a person."

"It's not like you to accept such a situation. Surely if you consulted
a lawyer.. ."

"No, I won't do that." She gave him a half smile. "I've thought
about it endlessly, and come to the conclusion that Ewart was
probably more right than he knew when he appointed his father as
Timothy's guardian. If he hadn't done that, Timothy would never
have known another Verender, and he'd have missed, a good deal.
It's not the rightness of the situation that bothers me - only Leon's
impatient handling of it. Well, let's forget it all for a while. Look,
there's our beach!"

But a minute later the beach was forgotten again, for Lucille
d'Esperez swept past them in her pink car, inclining her head
gracefully for a second as she did so.

"That," said Catherine drily, "is probably the second Mrs. Leon
Verender."

"Good heavens! He's drooling after a woman at his age?"

demanded Hugh. "She looks quite young!"

"She does, but she's probably forty. Leon doesn't drool, however;
he knows he'll be married for his money, but no doubt feels even
that is better than a companionless old age. Actually, she's not
good enough for him."

After that, they did forget the Villa Chaussy and its inmates for a
while. Hugh, terribly English and out of place in his lounge suit,
insisted on walking down to the water's edge and showing
Timothy how to play ducks and drakes. He looked happy and
absorbed, but a trifle yellow, Catherine thought.

It was almost dusk when they returned to the car, but Timothy
didn't look particularly tired. Perhaps he was getting a little old for
the afternoon sleep?

When the car was moving again, Hugh said, "I'll have to ask you
to drop me off at the inn. I haven't even unpacked yet. Shall I see
you this evening?"

"You'll want to be quiet. Let's meet tomorrow - I'll call for you at
ten in the morning."

"Good. But come in for a quick drink now."

"There's Timothy."

"A very quick one," he urged. "Won't hurt him to stay in the car
for two minutes." He turned and spoke to the little boy. "You'll be
good if we leave you alone for a minute or two, won't you?"

"Of course," came the dignified reply. "I'm not a baby."

"That's the boy."

There was not much parking space in front of the small auberge,
but Catherine was able to avoid the mass of scooters and tiny old
cars and run alongside the building, where she switched off. She
turned and gave Timothy a pat and a smile, told him she'd be back
in a shake and went inside the auberge with Hugh.

The low-ceilinged public room was crammed with sexless-

looking people in slacks and shirts, with an occasional bright
woollen cap here and there. The air was so thick with smoke that
for a moment Catherine failed to recognise someone who greeted
her by name. Then she saw that there were several people she
knew by sight, bearded men and spiky-haired women whom she
had met at Yvette Sellier's tea party.

"I'd forgotten," she murmured to Hugh. "This is a sort of club

room for the local long-haired crowd. Want to be introduced?"

"Lord, no," he said fervently. "We'll take our drinks outside. Wait
here while I get them."

It was while Hugh stood at the bar that Catherine saw Yvette. She
was sitting sideways on a bench against the wall, her legs drawn
up and clasped by her long bare arms, her small pointed chin
resting on one knee while she gazed with her almond-shaped
enigmatic eyes at her noisy, impecunious companions. She looked
like a mature and knowledgeable elf, and even when she saw
Catherine her expression changed very little. But she swung down
her legs, gave her straight black hair a shake and stood up, a
slender figure in black jeans and a black string-knit blouse.
Casually she pushed her way through the crowd.

"So. This is not a place for you, surely? You look for someone?"

"I'm with a friend who arrived here only today. Have we

interrupted a club meeting?"

Yvette lifted her shoulders and sent a dispassionate glance over the
people who were drinking and laughing behind them. "They talk
too much, about nothing. I was bored an hour ago, but I have to
wait for one of them to take me home and they are not anxious to
break up their grave discussions of each other's jingles and
illustrations." She gave Catherine the benefit of a long oblique
glance. "Thank you for dealing so promptly with my request.
Marcelle said she and Philippe had a perfect evening together at
the Villa Chaussy."

Hugh readied them, holding long glasses rather high. Catherine

said, "This is my cousin, Hugh Manning. Hugh Mademoiselle
Yvette Sellier."

"How do you do," said Hugh awkwardly. "Take this drink,

mademoiselle, and I'll get myself another."

Yvette flicked her fingers. "No more drink for me, merci! I was
wondering, Catherine, whether you would be good enough to drive
me home?"

"I'd love to. Hugh is staying here at the inn, and I must leave him
to it."

"We can still have our drink outside," he said, as he opened the
way for them. "The inn looked so quiet when I booked in; I can't
stand these bohemian lounging types."

When they had reached the half-lit darkness, Yvette said smiling,
"I am one of these lounging types myself, and I am beginning to
feel that I cannot endure us, either."

"I do beg your pardon." Hugh floundered a little. "I thought, as you
were a friend of Catherine's..." He let it tail off.

Once more Yvette lifted those narrow Shoulders. "You are no

doubt right about us, Mr. Manning. We are drab and monotonous."

"I didn't say that! I'm the drab one, and maybe you've too much
colour for me. I do beg your pardon."
"You have already said that. You were excused!" Yvette peered
through the car window. "So this is the small son! He is like you,
Catherine."

"Yes, I'm afraid he is."

"But why afraid? For you, it is a good thing. He cannot remind you
too forcibly of the husband you lost, and he will not remind the
next man you marry that he is not the first. But Mr. Manning no
doubt knew the child's father."

"I was his best man," said Hugh stiffly.

"That is traditional, no? The best man comforts ..." She stopped,
and said more quietly, "I apologise. I drank in there because
suddenly I was bored, bored, bored! I had just a little too much.
May I sit in the car, please?"

She slid into the front seat, and when the door was closed she sat
looking down at her fingers. Quickly, Catherine emptied her glass
and let Hugh take it.

"I must go now," she whispered. "See you tomorrow."

Hugh, puzzled and concerned, watched them drive away.

Catherine could imagine him shaking his head to himself as he
fought his way back to the bar and upstairs to his room. People
who talked what he called bilge and drank for no reason at all were
quite incomprehensible to Hugh Manning.

Catherine said, "It's rather late for Timothy. If you don't mind, I'll
take him to the villa and drive you home afterwards. Can you wind
down your window? The air will make you feel better." Or make
you pass out, she thought anxiously.
Yvette managed the window. Thinly, she said, "This is not a habit
of mine, to take three or four drinks. Some of them came to the
house for tea and we drove them to the auberge. Sitting there, I
thought of the futility of my life, of my uselessness."

"That's silly. You were pitying yourself."

Yvette's tones hardened. "You are very brave, of course, but you
are not temperamental. When one feels everything as sharply as I
do one must find an outlet."

"I think you're very lucky. You live in a charming villa and as the
doctor's sister you have chances every day of helping people who
may be sad because of illness in the family. Just a word or two
over the telephone and you've done your good deed. And I dare
say that crowd you move with could be fun, if you saw them less
often and didn't take them too seriously."

"That is kind of you - to remind me of my good fortune. You think

I live with remorse because I did not marry that stupid lawyer?
You are wrong."

There the conversation had to break off, because they had reached
the Villa Chaussy. Catherine took Timothy into the house, told
Louise he must have supper and go straight to bed and that she
would be back in time to say good night to him.

"Say the good night now, madame," said the calm Louise, "then
you need not hurry."

So Catherine kissed him and left him. She loved the half- hour
before bed with Timothy and hated to be cheated of it, but she
knew he would be all right with Louise, and she did feel rather
worried about Yvette Sellier. What was the matter with the
woman? She wasn't weak-willed, and in spite of the company she
kept she did have a strict moral code. Yet there she was, miserable
and a little disgusted with herself, and almost in a state bordering
on the neurotic. She was too much a Sellier to give way
completely.

Catherine started up the car and turned back towards the road.
Yvette sat huddled in her corner, a small withdrawn figure with a
certain arrogance in the way she held her head, even now. They
drove through the half-lit streets of the little town, turned off
towards the terraces of villas.

"I must explain to you," Yvette said at last.

"Please don't feel you have to. We all have peculiar patterns of
behaviour when we're upset or sad."

"So you guess." Yvette's tones were dull and flat. She asked the
question Catherine had put to herself. "What is wrong with me? I
am more fond of Philippe than of anyone in the world, yet when it
becomes obvious that he is going to marry someone we both love,
I am sick to the depths. I think I must be a little mad."

Catherine's throat had gone dry and her fingers were tense on the
wheel. "When did it become obvious that Philippe is going to
marry?" she queried. "Only today?"

"I told you I have been hoping," said Yvette. "I care a great deal
for Marcelle - she is not a grubby dilettante but a sweet person
who wishes to develop her talent. Perhaps, in her pursuit of
Philippe, she is rather selfish, but one can forgive her that. Today
she came for lunch with us both. Philippe was late and said he
needed only some coffee in his study. Marcelle carried the tray to
him and stayed with him for some time. When she came back to
the dining-room she looked pleasantly disturbed. I teased her, and
she said Philippe was in a strange mood, a trifle angry about
something, though he had assured Marcelle he could never be
angry with her. He told her that she was a most soothing antidote
to the sort of morning he had had. I was ... quite pleaded."

"But something happened after that?" Catherine asked.

Yvette again lifted those black-clad shoulders. "Marcelle was to

stay with me all day, but after the others arrived, Philippe had to
go out... and Marcelle went with him."

There was a silence, while Catherine swung the car towards the
last lap. Eventually she was able to say, "I seem to remember it's
what you wanted - an engagement between your brother and
Marcelle."

"I encouraged Marcelle because I thought she was different from

other women. But the success with Philippe has made her
contemptuous of me. She walked out with Philippe without even
recalling that she had promised to spend the day with me. Or
perhaps she remembered, but it was of no consequence compared
with the happiness of being with Philippe." She moistened her
reddened lips. "It is not simply that I detest being alone in the
evenings. It is the way she is changing, now that she is sure of
Philippe. I find it insupportable."

Her voice had gone small and hollow, and for a long moment
Catherine was wrung with compassion for this woman who was
older than she in years but very young in her emotional reactions.
She tried to infuse comfort into her tones,

"I think you're probably imagining a great, deal. When she's more
accustomed to her own feelings, and .., and of Philippe's, Marcelle
will be just as she was before'. A woman doesn't change towards
her friends when she marries."
"But this is different, no?" Yvette threw out a small pale hand. "I
am Philippe's sister and somewhat in the way. When Marcelle
becomes mistress of the villa I will be the tolerated demoiselle, the
old maid! That will happen to me, Yvette Sellier, who encouraged
Marcelle's friendship with Philippe because I felt she and I could
live companionably together. She will resent me, and make
remarks about her age and mine. She will become more important
to Philippe than I - and yet I have more brains in my toes than she
has in her head!"

Catherine smiled, though rather weakly. "So you decided to go out

with the crowd and drown your sorrows - but they wouldn't drown.
Well, you're home now, Yvette. Need any help?"

"Please. Oh, I can walk well enough, but please go in with me.
There is no car, you see, so Philippe is still out. Please... I feel I
must talk!"

Catherine felt she couldn't listen to any more; it was too

harrowing. But Yvette's small face was pale, and in the shaft of
light from he french windows she looked her age and very
depressed, and Catherine knew that if she did leave her now she
herself would feel uneasy all evening. So she got out of the car and
went with Yvette into the house. Yvette led the way upstairs to her
very French 'bedroom, and there she indicated a bowl-shaped
armchair and herself sank down on to a mound of cushions.

"I am so very sorry about those too many drinks," she said, "Please
do not tell Philippe."

"Of course not. Why don't you get into bed and sleep them off?"

"Yes, I will do that." But she did not move. "Your cousin will be
disgusted with French women. He looked most collet monte. What
is the English for that?"
"Strait-laced? He isn't, really. In a way he's quite adventurous,
though he doesn't think so. He's working in Hong Kong."

"These English!" She smiled slightly. "They are always the same -
in England, on the Riviera or away in the China Seas. He will have
a dreadful opinion of us here. You must explain,. no, do not
explain. Just say to him I am sorry."

"I'll do that. Perhaps next time you two meet you'll get a more
reasonable slant on each other. Don't you think you should go to
bed now? I can ask your maid to bring you some supper."

"Very well. Tell her - no, I will make my little mensonges myself!
I am a good liar, you know." She sighed. "Your idea of me now
will be very bad, and that hurts me. I would so much like you to
come and see me sometimes. I am always here."

"You shouldn't be. What about your family friends - don't you go
out to see them?"

"They gave me up long ago, but they do come here for dinner
about twice a year. They are fond of Philippe." The large eyes
flashed wide open. "I am very grateful to you, but I think you must
go, before Philippe returns. Please come for tea soon - tomorrow?
And bring that big clumsy cousin, so that I can show him I am not
always tipsy." In one swift graceful movement, which made her
sway and close her eyes for a second, she stood up. "Yes, my bed.
Au revoir, Catherine, and thank you. I think you are the sweetest
person I know."

Catherine made some sort of answer and slipped out of the room,
closing the door behind her. She paused and listened, heard an
unmistakable stride in the hall, the sound of feet on the carpeted
staircase. A faint sweat started at her temples, and she looked
about her in the corridor, hurriedly and without definite thought.
There were doors, all of them dosed except one, which stood wide,
its entrance a black rectangle. She crossed the corridor and was
swallowed in the gloom. With a fist pressed against her thudding
heart, she edged behind the door and listened.

The opening and closing of a door, running water, a short silence

while he no doubt used a towel, and then the click of the door
opening again. Those footsteps on the thick carpet. Then, with
stunning suddenness, she remembered her car was outside. He
must know she was here. Even so, it would be better for him to see
her sister and get her story, and while he was in that room she,
Catherine, could run downstairs and drive away. He'd think they'd
missed each other accidentally.

Yes, he'd gone into Yvette's room. Catherine stole out into the
corridor, began to run soundlessly towards the staircase. Two
flights, she recalled, with a wide Turkey-red landing halfway. A
door opened behind her and, foolishly, she put on speed, reaching
the stairs before she was quite ready for them. She pitched
forward, hit a couple of carpeted edges on the way and fell in a
heap on to the landing.

"Mon dieu! Imbecile!" Philippe was beside her on one knee,

slipping an arm under her, twisting her so that he could see her
face. "You are him? Pain somewhere?"

"No." She swallowed, found herself staring into his dark leaping
eyes. "No, I'm quite whole. I'm terribly sorry. You see, I..."

"I know!"

She closed her eyes against his anger, and with vision shut out, her
other senses came excruciatingly alive. His maleness blanketed
her, his arms, his warm breath across her brow, the vibrant
strength of the fingers which, no doubt professionally, felt her
shoulder and the bones of her arm.

Still seated on the carpet, she leaned forward, away from his arm,
and put a shaky hand to her face. "You've had enough of this kind
of thing all day," she said huskily. "I'm ashamed of myself."

His hands took her elbows and lifted her to her feet, steadied her.
In an icicle voice which had a peculiar undertone he said,
"Running away was not such a good idea, hein? We will take the
next staircase sedately."

They reached the hall, and Catherine, to her mortification, felt her
hair tumbling about her face. Her head still bent, she sought for the
pins and twisted the usual pleat into a knot. She dropped her arms,
and let her glance slide over his face before she averted it. He
looked taut, and rather more sallow than usual. There was a
compression at his mouth, his nostrils had thinned, and the grey
eyes had a blue steeliness about them.

"Sit down," he said.

She hesitated, then sank into an old tooled leather chair beside the
hall table. There were flowers on the table, white rosebuds with a
few speckled carnations, arranged neatly and without love, no
doubt by the maid. The clove smell of the carnations was
overpowering, and idiotically, Catherine recollected old Brulard
telling her that flowers took longer to wilt in hot sunshine if they
happened to have a strong protective perfume.

"I'd better explain," she said, wondering how in the world she was
going to. "Did Yvette tell you why I'm here?"

"She told me nothing. I saw the car; you were not in the salon and
I concluded you had gone with my sister to her room. Yvette was
alone, but I had the feeling you were still in the house. I came from
the room in time to see you hurry and fall." A pause, then a
metallic enquiry: "It was I who caused you to stumble, was it not?"

Her reply sounded a little feverish. "Of course not. I wasn't paying
enough attention. I was silly to hurry down a strange staircase, and
I'm thankful you have carpet, and not marble as we have at the
Villa Chaussy. I've quite recovered, and I certainly must go now."

"My sister invited you here?"

"We met in the town. I had the car, so I gave her a lift home."

"You met at the auberge?"

"Yes. She was with friends."

"And you also were with a friend."

"I'm sorry you didn't stay to meet my cousin at lunch- time," she
said conventionally.

"I would say he found your greeting was sufficient," he said, a

hard, ironic note in his voice. "Why did you send for him?"

"I didn't. My letter telling him that Timothy and I had come to
Pontrieux worried him. He felt I needed a ... a man, so he put in for
leave. He'd go to any trouble, for us."

"That was obvious."

She looked up, then, stung by his tone. "Hugh has been my
favourite cousin since I was a child. He's helped me enormously, at
different times, and if it hadn't been for Hugh, a couple of years
ago ..." She broke off abruptly, then said, "I know him better than I
know any other man."

"And he has asked you to marry him?"

The question was unexpected; even for Philippe it was going

rather far. But there was a mercilessness in him. He looked in a
mood to probe and probe till he got at the truth,

"Yes, he has."

Before she could say more he had plunged his hands into his
pockets and taken a few paces, saying rapidly as he did so, "It was
inevitable. He is so unlike the first man in your life. He is slow and
thoughtful and blessedly free from imagination. It would not hurt
him that you once loved another man more than you love him; he
is so grateful that you love him at all! And you. You think you
have had enough of living on a dangerous emotional plane; you
wish to vegetate with this man because the idea presents a picture
of peace. Or perhaps," swinging round and fastening upon her a
glittering glance, "it is for the child that you submerge your own
feelings? He would make an admirable parent, this cousin, and an
ally against whom even Leon would find himself in difficulties. Is
that how you think?"

"I haven't thought about it at all."

"And you hate my questions!"

"Yes," in low tones, "I'm afraid I do. Don't think I haven't been
very grateful for your help with Leon. It's only because you've
pointed out to him his errors a few times that I've been able to get
my own way in certain directions. But you're not Timothy's
godfather and you have no duty of any kind towards me. Hugh and
I ... we've known each other so long that we understand almost
without speaking; and I might tell you," with a quivering in her
voice, "that it's a vast relief to me to have him here. As Leon is at
the moment I can deal with him, but when he marries Lucille
d'Esperez things will change. I doubt if I shall be able to go on
living at the Villa Chaussy."

"Is that something else you resent?" he asked crisply. "Do you
grudge Lucille the admiration and affection of Leon? Or do you
have the modern idea that a man past sixty should crawl decently
into oblivion?"

Catherine looked down at her skirt. "Leon's private life is not my

concern except where it touches Timothy. Lucille has no children."

"So for the child's sake you will reinforce your own parenthood
with this Hugh Manning! That is contemptible - not worthy of you.
Before you go further you must realise that Leon has rights that
neither Lucille nor your cousin can alter."

That seemed to be that. Catherine could Have argued with him, she
could have told him that she had turned down Hugh's proposal and
was really a little frightened of what Lucille might contrive. But
she remembered the way he had left the villa after lunch, and
Yvette's description of how he had been alone with Marcelle in his
study and later wafted her off with him. Well, he could have his
Marcelle; but nothing had ever entitled him to take Catherine
Verender to task for the way she ran her own life.

She got to her feet. "I'm expected home for dinner. I really must
go."

He was quite close. '"You had a chat with my sister in her room?"

"Yes."
"It was arranged between you that you should leave before I
arrived home?"

"Not exactly."

"Then you yourself did not wish to meet me?"

"Well, we do rather annoy each other, don't we?"

He looked at her bent head, saw the curly wisps she had been
unable to secure, the pale skin of her neck, the fine curve of her
cheek. "Yes," he said offhandedly, "we do. I will take you to the
car."

She went first, and he reached behind her to open the car door.

She got into the car and started the engine, barely looked at him
before pressing down the accelerator. She heard his sharp shout:
"Switch on your lights!" and did so, swerving to avoid the rocky
border of a flower bed.

Then she was out on the road, with a blinding heat at the back of
her eyes and a lead casing round her heart.
CHAPTER SEVEN

HUGH was delighted with Pontrieux, its main streets and haphazard
terraces, the fort at Mont Ste. Agnes, the lazy- looking palms
which graced almost every garden, the tumbling masses of
bougainvillaea that produced striking patches of colour in spite of
the heat, and, of course, the beach. Glorious golden sand with a
rocky outcrop here and there for shade and cliffs confining the bay
and forming romantic-looking caverns. He bathed with Catherine
and took an uneasy Timothy into deep water, lounged and smoked
a cigarette and talked, in his dry fashion, about old times and
people they'd known. The few strangers on the beach no doubt
took them for a happy little family, and Catherine, still desperate
from that last moment with Philippe, wondered if it could possibly
work. No, their relationship was all wrong for it. They were too
comfortable together, knew too much about each other. And they
had never been even remotely in love.

At twelve-thirty she drove him to the inn.

"I'll have to get hold of a car of my own," he said. "They tell me

there's one for hire at the garage. I'll walk along and have a look at
it after lunch."

"You'll find the place closed till three. They're at their most wide
awake here about six in the evening."

"I'll phone then. I want to be able to come and see you whenever I
feel like it - which will be often!"

She touched his hand. "It's lovely having you here, but I'm going to
be awfully frank. Please don't come to the villa unless you're
invited. I mean that, Hugh. We can be together every day - I'll
bring picnics and we can tour, if you like - but I don't want you to
have any clashes with Leon. He's probably already had a session
with his lawyer, to find out just how important you are to his
schemes. If he can't get at you it will take the wind out of his
sails."

"I thought you needed me. You said so."

"I do, but you don't have to assert yourself unless it becomes
necessary. I don't think it's possible to hurt Leon, but why should
we even try? I've found it's much easier to deal with each grouse of
his as it turns up. Will you let me decide when it's right for you to
come to the villa?"

"Well, all right." But he wasn't too pleased about it. "What time
shall I see you this afternoon? Three-ish? What about leaving
Timothy with me for lunch?"

Catherine looked doubtfully at the sandy little boy in the back seat.
"He needs a shower and fresh clothes."

"I'll sluice him down. Like to have lunch with me, Timothy?"

"Mmmm. I never had lunch in a pub."

Catherine blinked. "Pub? Where did you get that?"

"Michael says bread and cheese and beer in a pub is his idea of.,."
He lost himself and ended, "He likes it."

"So do I," said Hugh heartily. "Let's go in and have some."

"Don't stuff him," Catherine warned. "And please, Hugh, don't

give him anything he hasn't had before. Ask him first. Timothy,
are you quite sure you want to stay with Uncle Hugh?"

"Sure I'm sure."

She sighed, and smiled at Hugh. "I can't make up my mind
whether its good or bad for him to pick up expressions from
Michael. Some of them are definitely blue! Is it wicked to be
delighted even when I'm shocked?"

"Of course not, but you should tell the chap to be a bit careful.
Come on, Timothy. I'll let you have first go in the bath."

It was rather odd to be driving back to the Villa Chaussy without

Timothy, but she was glad he had remained behind so willingly. It
still worried her that he had no small friends, but while he drifted
round with Hugh or Michael he was learning tiny things about men
which were helping him to grow away from the almost model
child he had been. And when schooldays came round he'd be ready
for them, and find plenty of companionship.

She stopped the car on the drive and left the keys dangling from
the ignition lock. She was hardly at the front door before the
chauffeur had taken possession of the car; it would be sparkling
next time she used it, not a grain of sand in sight. Well, it was a
pleasant life, but only for a while. When Timothy eventually
started school she would feel superfluous; she simply wasn't made
for a life of idle luxury.

She slipped out of the beach dress and washed, put on a white
pleated skirt and a smart navy blouse. Taking a long look at herself
in the mirror, she thought that easily attained good clothes might
have an insidiously warping effect on one's character. It was too
easy to slide into the mood they engendered, an indolent take-me-
or-leave-me attitude. And on the whole there was more fun in
wearing something you had worked and saved for. She now owned
a large exclusive wardrobe which had cost Leon a packet. Not that
she minded his paying for her clothes; if he wanted her to look
every inch a Verender why shouldn't he pay for the privilege?
Deep inside, she had never quite admitted to having changed from
a Harvey into a Verender. During the first couple of years it had
been delightful to be a Mrs. instead of a Miss, but after that, in
moments of disillusionment, she had found that in some things she
and Ewart were strangers to each other - she all Harvey, he all
Verender. He'd chafed at the restrictions of marriage, been proud
of Timothy and jealous of him. She'd tried to laugh him out of the
jealousy, and each time he'd made the same complaint. "I don't
really know you. There's a part of yourself you keep right away
from me." In vain, she'd told him it wasn't true. Privately she had
thought he needed that little stick to beat her with because he knew
that every time he entered a racing car he let her down all over
again.

Now she was not so sure. Perhaps in those days she had kept some
part of herself from him simply because he hadn't awakened it.
They'd both been young and ebullient, and not too curious about
what lay beneath the gaiety, and she had eventually found Timothy
an absorbing little personality; he had made up for other lack. But
Catherine had a small, haunting conviction that all the secret
compartments were wide open now. She felt different in a most
painful way.

Resolutely stopping her thoughts right there, she went downstairs.

Leon was alone in the salon, reading a newspaper and drinking his
pre-lunch whisky. He looked up.

"Like a drink?"

"No, thanks. Have the English papers come in?"

"The whole range is in my study. Help yourself."

She found the Telegraph, came back and sat down. For a few
minutes only the crackle of newsprint punctuated the silence.
There was no world-shaking news any more, thought Catherine.
Even when half a continent fell apart, killing thousands, the rest of
the world read the headlines and passed on. The reflection was
sobering.

"It's getting very hot here," said Leon abruptly. "I always take a
cruise in the hot weather. I'm arranging to have three weeks aboard
the yacht."

"Oh." Catherine looked at his face and learned nothing, "Do you
fix up a party of guests?"

"I certainly don't go sailing around on my own." He drew hard on

his cigar, sent out a thin stream of aromatic smoke. "Usually I get
hold of business colleagues and their wives, and perhaps a
sportsman or two. A mixed bag who can amuse each other. Dean
has been telephoning different people this morning - seems there'll
be about fourteen of us. A good number, fourteen." Catherine said
nothing and he added, narrow-eyed, "You and the boys are
coming, of course, and Lucille thinks we should invite your
cousin, but I'm not so sure."

"When do you intend to sail?"

"It takes a week or so to provision and get ready. Haven't seen the
yacht, have you?"

"Only in the distance, from the shore."

"I'm proud of her; she's carried some famous people." He gave her
the long, penetrating look. "You don't seem ecstatic about it."

"I was just thinking it wouldn't really be very good for Timothy - a
sophisticated adult cruise."
"There'll be another boy - and partly for your sake I'm inviting
mostly English people who aren't in their dotage."

"It's very good of you, Leon."

He made a sound of impatience. "Isn't it time you realised that

you're not a visitor here? You and the boy are my kin - you belong
here with me." The growling sound came into his voice. "God
knows I've given in to you more often than I've given in to anyone
before - man or woman. Because you were against it I've bought
the boy few toys; and because you were afraid for the lamb I didn't
insist that he go to the boxing, or take the day out yachting with
those youngsters I told you about. In fact, I've left him alone for
several days - but that doesn't mean I'm satisfied with the way he's
shaping."

"I'm afraid you never will be, because he's not your sort."

"We'll see about that. Anyway,,. this cruise I mentioned. Lucille

has promised me that she'll help you choose the clothes you'll
need."

"I've plenty of clothes."

He lifted a warning finger. "You do as Lucille says. She's been on

these trips and she knows the ropes. And there's something else."
He spoke in slow, casual tones. "It seems you haven't hidden the
fact that you dislike Lucille. The way you feel about people is your
own business, but when your dislike becomes obvious to my
friends, it becomes my concern. Next time you happen to be alone
with Lucille you can think rude things if it helps you, but don't say
them."

Catherine folded the newspaper with unnecessary precision. There

was a hot little blaze in her throat and a tightness in her chest. She
had wondered several times about that threat of Lucille's: "I'll
make you sorry...." Apparently she was already getting to work on
it.

It wasn't Catherine's business, but she had to ask, "Are you going
to marry Lucille?"

He smiled cynically. "What have you got against her?"

"My interest is purely selfish. How would it affect Timothy?"

"Let me see now. I'd say it would hardly affect him at all. He'd still
be scared of trees and ponies, and talk like a sloppy little girl. I
doubt if Lucille could toughen him any more than you can. She'd
try harder, but I'm afraid it's a man's job."

Catherine didn't trust herself to answer that. Leon was in an

awkward mood and she had no urge to fight it. Her lack of
response must have surprised him a little, for he slanted her one of
his characteristic looks from under his brows, and took his time
before he spoke again.

"Seeing that this is your first acquaintance with the Mediterranean

you should get quite a kick out of the cruise. We usually go down
as far as Marseilles, spend a few days there, touch Corsica, then
Pisa or Genoa and back to Nice by way of Monte Carlo. We go
ashore at about eight places, and you'll be the luckiest one among
us, because you haven't seen them before. Does it appeal to you?"

"Very much."

"And do you want this cousin of yours along?"

"I think he'd enjoy it."

"That's not what I asked. Don't run away with the notion that I can
be fooled, Catherine. That man came here to ask you to marry him;
it stood out ten miles. And if you don't believe me, ask Lucille.
She saw the two of you driving in town yesterday afternoon, and
told me on the telephone last night that she thought as I did."

Lucille didn't think as Leon did - she thought as she imagined he

wanted her to think. And sometimes, subtly, she slipped thoughts
into his mind. Catherine had a feeling of Suffocation; thank heaven
the woman wasn't here for lunch.

"You must please yourself whether you invite Hugh," she said. "In
any case, he might prefer to go touring by car while I'm away, It's
ten minutes since Antoine rang the lunch bell. Shall we go in?"

While they ate, Leon said very little. He had the morose expression
of a man deep in his own slightly unpleasant reflections, and it
occurred to her that though he often bullied her and occasionally
even ranted and smashed his fists on the table, he had never before
looked like this. Dourness suggested thoughts kept back and
mulled over, and that wasn't like Leon. If anything, he was over-
keen on saying exactly what was in his mind with a ruthless
economy of words.

He ordered coffee to be brought to the table, and said to Catherine,

"As you haven't yet seen the yacht you might like to go down with
me this afternoon - you and Tim."

She thought quickly. This was the first time he had suggested
taking the two of them out for the afternoon, and Timothy, drat it,
was with Hugh. As well, she had promised to take Hugh to have
tea with Yvette. At the back of her mind had lurked a
determination not to stay at the Selliers' villa; she would persuade
Yvette to come out with them.
"I'd like that," she said, still thinking, "but Timothy's out to lunch.
We could pick him up, though."

"Out where?"

"With my cousin at the inn."

Leon scowled. "That's quick work, isn't it? I suppose they get on
famously together!"

"Hugh is an uncle to Timothy." She pushed her cup away. "It just
happens that I'd made arrangements for the afternoon, but I'll be
most happy to call them off. Just give me half an hour."

"Don't bother." He sounded sour and irritated.

"Well, can we go tomorrow?"

"I shall be out the whole day."

"Please let me arrange it for this afternoon, then. I want to."

He shrugged. "If you're not back by a quarter to three I'll go down

alone."

Unsmilingly she said, "I'll be back before then, you old tyrant."
And she hurried out to the car.

When he drove with Leon, apparently Timothy sat in the middle of

the front seat. He sat very still with his hands in front of him and
his eyes directed rigidly towards the dashboard. Leon ignored him,
and all he said to Catherine was, "Grand roads, these Corniches,"
as they began, to put on speed.
Catherine felt a little guilty about Hugh, but she was sure she had
done the right thing. An afternoon away from the Villa Chaussy
with Leon was something she and Timothy could not miss. More
so as it was Leon's first attempt at sharing guardianship.

Hugh had said, a little crossly, "I'm not telephoning explanations to

a strange woman; she may have had one too many last night, but
she still had a snooty look - and I don't care for women who wear
tight slacks, either. The servant will answer, I suppose, and I'll give
her a message for Mademoiselle Sellier. That's as far as I'll go."

"Please say how very sorry I am," Catherine pleaded, as she

frantically poured Timothy into his shorts, "and tell her I'll
telephone her myself later on. I simply have to go now."

"I'm sure your damned father-in-law has done this purposely,

because it's my first day here."

"I don't think so. He's difficult, but he's not small-minded. Bear
with me just this once, Hugh."

"I bear with you all right, bless you. But Verender..." He shook his
head. "Go along, then. Don't speed."

So here they were, looping round the cliffs in the Cadillac on a

hazy afternoon that made the sea look pale. Driving with Leon was
an unfamiliar experience, and she thought she had better let him
start the conversation. But he seemed to be in no hurry, so she
looked out at the little villages perched among the cliffs or
scattered along the back of a beach, and felt a familiar thrill as
Nice drew near.

They drove into the old town, past narrow streets which were all
steps and cobbles, flapping shutters and communal clothes-lines,
and out on to one of the jetties towards the outer harbour. And
there she saw the yacht, Francette, lying off the jetty. It was white
with a blue trim, the size of a small liner and very smart.

"I didn't think it would be so big," she said. "It looks as if it would
take a hundred people!"

Leon braked. "There are eight double cabins and four single. All
the rest is given over to dining-room and lounges. The kitchens
and seamen's quarters are forward. There's a swimming-pool on
the afterdeck, but we only use it when we're at sea for a couple of
days. It's covered by a movable dance floor. What sort of sailor are
you?"

"Pretty good."

"You'd better be, both you and the child. Let's go aboard."

They went by launch, and climbed a neat iron staircase. To

Catherine's relief a seaman carried Timothy aloft and Leon went
ahead of her. She stepped on to the deck, to be greeted by an
oldish man in a gold-braided white uniform.

"This is Captain Bailey - retired from the Royal Navy. My

daughter-in-law, George."

Catherine made the appropriate rejoinder to the Captain's greeting.

He bent and shook Timothy's hand, and the little boy looked up at
him with a faintly worried air.

"Do we have to go downstairs?" he asked.

Captain Bailey smiled reassuringly. "You'll find it easier this time,

old fellow. There was a strong wind and we pitched a bit when you
came last time." To Catherine he explained: "He had a rocky ride
down the companionway, but he managed it."
"Of course he managed it," said Leon shortly. "I'll take them round
the ship, George. We'll all have tea together - say four-fifteen."

Leon was proud of his yacht, and he had reason to be. Catherine
had expected luxury, but not this polished magnificence. The
cabins were large, air-conditioned and beautifully appointed, some
in soft grey and pastel pink and others in white and sapphire. All
had private bathrooms, radio, intercom and small built-in cocktail
cabinet with its own freezing-unit. The dining-room was spacious
and lofty with portholes on two sides and a dais opposite the main
entrance.

Leon said, "We don't take along any entertainers because it's a bore
to have them around during the day. I mostly engage a dance band
or local celebrities wherever we put in, just for the evening. Get a
change of amusement that way."

Then there were the lounges: one long main one furnished -in rose,
black and turquoise which looked out over the decks on three
sides, and a slightly smaller one which was soft gold and midnight
blue. In this second, Leon explained, they had television in port
and film shows at sea. A third, with a bamboo bar and multi-
coloured stools, was the cocktail lounge.

"A rich man's floating playground," said Leon. "That's what you're
thinking, isn't it?"

"Yes. But you earned it yourself."

"And I believe in spending money on such things. If there were no

palaces or plush hotels, no casinos or luxury yachts, the world
would be the poorer in spirit and quite without excitement. When
we set sail in the Francette half the Nipois turn out to cheer. They
enjoy the cruise vicariously, and they're there to welcome us
back."
"It's a very beautiful ship," she said. And suddenly: "Where's
Timothy? He was here a few minutes ago."

"Let him roam," said Leon impatiently. "He's been here before."

"He might look over the side."

"There are hands working on deck. He'll be within sight of

someone."

Catherine felt as if all her nerves were beginning to twitch. "I'm

sorry, but I just have to know. How can we find out where he is?"

"We can go out on deck ourselves and walk round. This way,"

Catherine stepped out into the air, was blinded for a moment by
the haze over the sea. She looked both ways, walked quickly ahead
of Leon towards the foredeck and round to the port side.

"No sign of him. Would he go below?"

"I doubt it," with heavy sarcasm. "He took a real dislike to the
companionway."

"Then where can he be?"

"Excuse me, sir," said a white-clad seaman in refreshing cockney.

"Are you looking for the nipper? He's in Number Three lifeboat
put him there meself."

"Did he ask you to?" queried Catherine.

"Yes, miss ... ma'am," with a surprised stare at the titian hair. "He's
chattering away in there like a magpie."

"Thank you. Thank you very much."

"What did I tell you?" murmured Leon, when the seaman had
moved away. "He's got into the safest place he could find."

"Where is Number Three lifeboat?" she demanded.

"Leave him there. He got himself in, he must get himself out."

"Where is it?"

"Along here. But I forbid you to speak to him. You can watch, if
you insist, but let him find his own way of getting out!"

The tarpaulin-covered lifeboat hung about two feet from the deck,
but its side was nearer five feet above deck-level. By standing on
tiptoe Catherine could see moving bumps in the tarpaulin and
Timothy was grunting, as though he were pacing, bent double. He
began to speak, in small raucous tones.

"Get off my ship! I won't allow no one but me on my ship. You

hear me? I said get off my ship, all of you. You, too, Grandpa. Go
on."

Catherine gave an astonished laugh and backed away. Leon was

gazing at the boat, his lip jutting, brows drawn together.

"The cub!" he said. "What did he mean by that?"

Unthinkingly, Catherine slipped her hand within his elbow and

drew him with her. She was laughing soundlessly.

"That's one up on you," she said. "He's giving you a piece of his
mind, under cover. You should be proud; in his own baby way he's
beginning to revolt. He's a bit late - you probably told your father
where to get off when you were two - but better late than not at all.
I think it's funny."
"You would. But if that boy had been properly brought up he
wouldn't have to suffocate for his half-baked principles. Come
back to the lounge. I'll tell someone to get him out!"

Was that look in his face only vexation? Catherine couldn't be

sure, though she knew he hadn't been in the least amused. Well, it
served him right. There was nothing so shattering as a child's
private reaction to tyranny.

They sat in the lounge, but Catherine watched the opening while
Leon talked with the Captain. And presently Timothy sidled in,
pretending he'd been close all the time. He was slightly flushed
and the fair bang of hair had slipped forward over his brow, but he
looked very sweet and wholly innocent as he edged towards
Catherine and landed on a chair. She saw him peer surreptitiously
at red weals on both hands, and in a startled second she knew that
he had insisted on getting himself out of the boat. Her own blue-
green eyes were large and expressive as she caught Leon's glance
and held it. He looked very much as if he'd have liked to turn
Timothy over and spank him.

Tea was served by one of the French waiters, and after it the
launch took the three of them to the jetty. They got into the car and
drove back the way they had come.

They were halfway home when Leon said, "Enjoy yourself, Tim?"

"Yes, thank you, Grandpa," came the polite reply.

"Did you look at the engines?"

"No, Grandpa."

"Where did you go when you left us?"

This disconcerted Timothy; he had decided his absence had gone
unnoticed. "I walked a bit."

"Is that all?"

He considered the question, decided on diversionary tactics. "It

was a very nice tea," he said, and turning his trusting glance upon
Catherine. "Better than last time. Much better."

Which Catherine thought was clever of him. They reached the villa
at a little after six, and by seven Timothy, having forgone his
afternoon nap, was under his cellular blanket, ready for sleep.
Catherine changed quickly, looked at her watch and decided she
ought to call Yvette. She picked up her telephone, asked the
manservant for a line, and dialled. The voice that answered was
not Marthe's or Yvette's.

"Dr. Sellier."

Her heart bumped. "Oh ... Philippe. This is Catherine Verender.

May I speak to Yvette?"

"She is not with you?" He sounded arctic. "Yvette told me at lunch

that you and your cousin would be taking tea with her today."

Catherine explained briefly, adding, "I am sure Hugh would have

phoned her as he promised. Do you think she felt lonely and went
out with her friends?"

"'It is most unlikely. Last night she said she had finished with
them." A pause. "It is a little disturbing that she should go out
without speaking first with the maid, but almost certainly she is
with Marcelle. Did you have something important to say to her?"

"Just an apology."
"I will convey it for you."

"Thank you. Goodbye."

She dropped the receiver on to its stand. The brittle, happy mood
she had contrived with Leon was smashed. She crossed to the
dressing-table for a tissue, to wipe fingers which had gripped the
telephone so tightly that they had perspired, and stood there
looking at her tense features in the mirror. What was to be done
about this feeling she had for Philippe Sellier? Just his voice, and
she felt like this.

Here at the villa she was too close to him, and yet it was
impossible to get away. There was the projected cruise ahead, but
it was likely to prove no more than a respite; she would have to
come back, meet him again, often, with Marcelle as his promised
wife, then as his wife in reality.

There had been moments when Catherine had been sure that he felt
some pull of attraction towards her; vice-like fingers on her
shoulders, a sharp-drawn breath, a tightish, watchful smile. Well,
he was a man; very much so. And She was probably a little
different from other women he knew. A man is attracted to many
women, but he marries only one. And the woman whom Philippe
Sellier chose would certainly not be a widow with a son. She knew
enough about him to be sure it was something he couldn't possibly
live with - the knowledge of a previous marriage and the child to
prove it. That small stirring of his emotions had been easily
controlled; it might even have been the reason that he had become
more overtly interested in Marcelle Latour.

Or was she kidding herself? Perhaps she was no more to Philippe

than the daughter-in-law of his rich friend, Leon Verender;
certainly he had kept the wall securely between them, and she had
the conviction that She couldn't have breached it with all the
feminine dynamite in the world at her disposal.

It was only since knowing Philippe that she had become aware of
the superficiality of her marriage with Ewart. Given the chance,
her own love could have deepened, because of Timothy. But Ewart
- he'd loved speed and publicity, and using his undoubted charm
wherever it could get him what he wanted. His nature simply
hadn't been big enough to encompass racing cars and marriage as
well.

Was it wrong to want so desperately to be adored and cherished?

Not wrong, perhaps, but too much to hope for. Thank heaven for
Timothy.

Lucille was at the villa for dinner that night, expansive in manner
and very beautiful in jade matt silk. As Leon would be occupied all
day tomorrow, she commented over coffee in the salon, would it
not be a good idea if Catherine came to Nice for shopping?

"These clothes for the cruise, of course. I will telephone two of the
fashion houses from my hotel early tomorrow morning, and have
them arrange special parades for you at about noon and again at
three-thirty. For Leon, they will concoct a trousseau within a few
days!"

Catherine protested, half-heartedly. Clothes, luxury cruises ... it

was like planning a banquet without a guest of honour, or a
wedding without a groom. There was a yawning emptiness.

"It would be best to leave the little boy with a maid," Lucille stated
calmly. "Unless he would be happier with your fianc?" She
snapped her fingers, looked confused. "How foolish! I meant your
cousin. You must forgive me, Catherine. I saw you two, laughing
together as you drove, and you presented such a delightful picture
that I quite forgot you are related. But it is second cousins, no?"

"The boy will stay here with a maid," said Leon.

Lucille flexed her powers a little. "But, Leon," winningly, "this

man is his relation, and you will admit it is better for the child to
be with a man than with a maidservant."

"It won't hurt the boy to stay at home. Dean can watch him."

She gave in gracefully, but Catherine sensed a hint of venom in the

capitulatory shrug. Tomorrow was going to be exhausting.

Quite early next morning she drove Timothy down to the auberge.
Only one of the doors was open, and inside, looking benignly
drowsy, the proprietor was rearranging his bottles and washed
glasses after the night's trade. He disappeared behind a curtain and
called, "Monsieur! You 'ave a veesee-tor!" and came back to smile
again and continue his operations, a thumb swathed in a rather
grubby teacloth contriving with lightning efficiency to put a shine
on the glassware.

Hugh appeared, looking more thickset than ever in a blue check

Shirt and Bermuda shorts. He shepherded Catherine and Timothy
outside and sat them on a rickety bench under a faded umbrella
while he took a weather-beaten stool. He looked harassed, but
Hugh was bound to look harassed in a country where English was
a foreign tongue.

Without preamble he said, "Gosh, what did you let me in for,

yesterday? I've never had such a nerve-racking experience in my
life!"

"What happened?"
"I hate to think about it. She's a menace - Yvette Sellier."

"Yvette? What sort of menace?"

Hugh rubbed a hand round the back of his neck. "I telephoned her
as you asked. She seemed to be in a mischievous sort of mood, so I
was careful. First of all she asked me to go there alone for tea -
tried to be funny by saying I could bring the aubergiste as a
chaperon, if I liked. I said I hadn't a car, so she told me of a man
who hired his out occasionally." He shook his head, bewilderedly.
"Well, the outcome was that I arrived there in this borrowed car."

"Oh, dear. She was getting at you because she was bored."

"I know that. I went there because she'd taken the mickey, and I
intended to drink one cup of tea and firmly say goodbye. But she'd
dressed herself up in a pink thing and said she would rather go out
to tea. After that," with a shake of his head, "I seemed to be in her
hands."

"You should have tried to enjoy it. Yvette does sometimes behave
like a precocious girl, but she's also an intelligent woman."

"She had me foxed," he admitted with a sigh. "She knows this

district and I don't. She told me we were travelling in a wide circle
a short way in from the coast, but when we stopped for
refreshment I found we were seventy miles inland from Pontrieux.
I've never seen a woman take so much time over a cup of filthy
chocolate and a macaroon! I've never heard a woman talk so much,
either. Most of it I couldn't make head or tail of. Arty stuff."

Catherine laughed a little at the picture of Hugh in the charge of a

small, headstrong, effervescent woman. "She was getting at you.
Yvette's not a very happy person, really. She's genuinely interested
in the arts, but it's not nearly enough for her restless brain - she
ought to have married. What time did you get back to Pontrieux?"

"At about a quarter to eight. She made me drop her outside their
gate because she could see her brother in the porch. He came down
to her - sounded hipped. And she had the nerve to say, 'I have been
shopping in Cannes, cheri. Met some old friends and found it was
so late that I came home by taxi.' Taxi!" he repeated explosively.

"And that was the last straw." Catherine nodded understandingly.

"Some time I'll tell you all about Yvette, and you'll feel as I do -
that she's missed out somewhere. Didn't you find her exciting?"

"I found her unsettling," Hugh said uncomfortably. "I'm too set in
my ways to handle a woman like her. I know I told you I like them
different and perhaps exciting, but I don't care for them as different
as she is. I must say she looked pretty marvellous, though - the
dress was a great improvement on the jeans."

"Did you arrange to see her again?"

"I did not! It'll take me two or three days to get over the last lot,
and by then she'll have forgotten I exist." He dismissed the subject
on a long gusty breath. "What are we doing today?"

"Nothing, I'm sorry to say, I'm booked till this evening, and Leon
said that Timothy must stay at the Villa Chaussy. Tomorrow we'll
take a picnic and explore. By the way, how would you like a three-
weeks' cruise on a fabulous yacht?"

"Not much," he said flatly. "I'm a rotten sailor and even if I weren't
I'd be happier on a tugboat. Like a cold drink?"

She couldn't stay long with him, but he seemed fairly happy to be
left; he had some letters to write and had promised himself a climb
up the nearest mountain. Catherine drove back to the villa, left
Timothy with Michael Dean and set out for Nice.

The landmarks along the Corniche were becoming familiar. The

crag that arched over the road, the rock which some wag had
roughly chiselled into a man's head and ornamented with beard
and spectacles, the sheer drop to the sea, with its fuzz of rock-
plants against the blue Mediterranean.

It was a quarter to twelve when she stopped the car outside

Lucille's hotel. And there was Lucille, talking her own particular
brand of shop with the military-looking man Catherine had seen
her with before. Both were after a moneyed marriage partner,
according to Michael.

Lucille took her seat, smiled magnanimously. "It is all arranged,"

she said. "First we go to a salon which is managed by a close
friend of mine, and then we have lunch. This afternoon, Raoul
Guise will show for you. You have already bought from Raoul, I
believe; on the telephone this morning he told me you are his ideal
figure and colouring - which means he has great respect for Leon's
money!"

Catherine wished she could fabricate some enthusiasm for the

chase after the dernier cri, but what she lacked Lucille made up
for. At the first lushly carpeted salon they chose two evening
gowns and a cocktail dress. Lunch, which was apparently debited
to the expense account of the salon, was taken in a small party at
an exclusive restaurant. Then came the second showing, in the
discreetly lighted lounge of the famous Raoul Guise.

All day Catherine had felt dull and uninterested, but as the parade
of slim women in sportswear and casual suits, summer cottons and
light coats petered out, she began to revive. It was almost over.
"Blacks and white and vivid blues, madame! You will look
exquisite!" Ugh.

She wandered away from the artificially lighted half of the salon
towards a window, and looked down upon the busy street. It was
cool in here but hot out there, where shirt- sleeved messengers
dodged among men and women in light suits and gay sleeveless
dresses. Taxis zigzagged, a gendarme berated a careless
pedestrian, two middle-aged Frenchmen talked fast into each
other's faces, and a plump woman was nervously going through
her handbag to find a coin for a newspaper.

Lucille came beside Catherine, waving a pad of bills. "Your

signature, Catherine, please. I have checked the details - they are
correct."

Catherine flicked over the three sheets of writing. "Did I buy all
these? I'm sure I shan't need so much."

Lucille shrugged. "It was Leon's orders. He will not question a

single item, I assure you. Sign just there. Thank you, I will take
this to Raoul and then we can go."

Idly, Catherine watched her float across to the dapper little man
who had raved so unselfconsciously about his own creations. Their
heads went together, conspiratorially, but Catherine thought
nothing of it till something swiftly changed hands between them -
a small piece of paper . . . a cheque?

"Ah, so that is finished!" Lucille had turned and spoken loudly

enough to be heard at some distance. "Let us go, Catherine. I am
sure you are as worn as I."

They went out into the late afternoon heat, found that Raoul's
chauffeur had brought the primrose car from wherever it had been
parked, and gratefully sank into its comfortable privacy. Catherine
drove down towards the Boulevard des Anglais. Within sight of
her hotel, Lucille said:

"Will you come in for a drink?"

"No, thank you. I shall be glad to get home and take a bath."

Lucille regarded her fixedly. "You continue to He very distant

towards me, but I shall persevere. I do hope you are not still
remembering my rash words that night in your room. Things are
settling very well at the Villa Chaussy, and I wish to make my
apologies for the things I said. I do not even remember them very
clearly, so you will understand that I spoke in the heat of the
moment."

"It's not important."

"But I wish the matter to be quite clear. I was naturally upset when
you came into my life and Leon's nearly a year ago, and it took
much self-discipline before I could accept you. For the last two or
three years I have lived on my jewels, but they are almost gone
and I have been anxious and apprehensive. All I asked of you was
that you should not obstruct Leon's plans for the child. I was most
pleased, last night, to hear that you three had gone together to the
yacht. Thank you very much, Catherine."

They were at the hotel, and Catherine braked. The woman must
think her influence mighty strong, but there was no point in
denying it.

"I'm glad to have made you happy," she said coolly.

"You have helped, I suppose," Lucille conceded, generously. "But

I will tell you a secret. As you will have guessed, I have friends in
every magasin of importance here in Nice, and there is not much
news which escapes me. I have heard that Leon has ordered a very
beautiful diamond necklace for me." Her long, pink-tipped finger
tapped the steering wheel and an exultant note sounded in her
voice. "So I forgive you for monopolising his attentions for a
while. The necklace can mean only one thing. We shall probably
announce the date of our marriage during the cruise!"

In a way it was a relief; she needn't wonder, uneasily, what Lucille

would think up as a reprisal. "Congratulations," she said. "I hope
you'll make Leon very happy."

Lucille must have noticed the phrasing, but her outsize ego ignored
it. She gathered her purse and gloves, said au revoir, and got out of
the car. Catherine pushed over the gear lever and drew out into the
coastal traffic.

She didn't think much on the way home. The sky had hazed again
and there was a golden glow over the trees and cliffs. The sea
looked incredibly far away, an expanse of opaque blue glass
stretching into infinity. Catherine wondered if it ever roared and
tumbled; she had only seen it calm and dotted with red and white
sails with an occasional liner on the horizon.

At the villa she met Antoine, who told her that Timothy was up the
garden with Michael Dean. After a moment's hesitation she made
her way to the cottage, and found the two of them, Michael in a
deck-chair with his eyes closed and Timothy chopping harmlessly
at a massive oak with his toy axe. She kissed the top of the little
fair head. Michael opened a bleary hazel eye and sat up.

"Hi," he said. "Come to collect your offspring? You know, I never

thought I'd degenerate into a baby-sitter. It's demoralising."

"I won't do it again. How did you get on?"

"Oh, we've managed. What about you?"

She raised an eyebrow. "A day among the fashion types with
Lucille. Your guess would be right."

"Sounds ghastly. Lucille has gone all chipper, hasn't she?"

"She has. She knows about the necklace."

"Trust Lucille. The jewellers were on the phone about it only this
morning - they were anxious to know if the old man wanted
Lucille's initials on the under-side of the platinum setting of the
clasp. They do it sometimes for identification in case of theft. I've
got to ask Leon about it. Wouldn't you think he'd have more sense
than to marry that harpy?"

"I don't know. You see lots of women of Lucille's age in Nice, but
none so beautiful and poised as she is. Everywhere she goes
people look at her."

"You were there too. How do you know they weren't looking at
you?" With his espadrille he hooked the deckchair back under the
sloping roof of the cottage, and then sauntered with her to where
Timothy sat sharpening his axe with a stone. "I suppose she thinks
the old man will propose on the cruise?"

Catherine nodded. "He must know she'll marry him for his money,
and I dare say it's true that he wouldn't mind very much. She'd be a
companion as. well as a model for mink and jewels, and very
likely that's all he wants. I just wish she were honest, that's all."

"You want too much. Lucille was born predatory and devious. But
to give her her due, she's never taken anything but the most
innocuous gifts from Leon."
Catherine drew in her lips. "That's her line, but who's to know
what she does on the quiet? You know, I'm quite certain she
accepted a rake-off from those dressmakers today. While I was
there I daren't even ask the price of the things, and..."

"That's funny," Michael broke in. "I have to handle your accounts
and I noticed that some of the shops don't send the detailed slips -
only a statement for the total. I mentioned it to Leon and he said I
wasn't to question anything you bought - just to pay for it."

Catherine stared at him. "Michael, do you think she's ...?"

"I'm darned sure of it! She's probably made a new evening gown, a
cruising outfit and a fat cheque out of you today. Well, what do
you know? She's rooking the old man before she's hooked him!"

"Forget it, for heaven's sake. It makes me feel a bit sick." She
smiled at him wanly. "Thanks again for looking after Timothy.
Come on, darling. Poor Michael's had enough."

"So long, pal," said Michael.

"So long, pal," returned Timothy equably. "Be seeing you."

CHAPTER EIGHT

THE summer cruise, apparently, had a threefold object. Leon could

cool off at sea during some of the hottest weeks of the season, he
could entertain in the way he liked best and his staff at the villa
could take their annual leave en bloc. Michael Dean would be
given a bonus of an air ticket to England and the French staff
would receive extra money and Leon's good wishes.

The odd thing was that, instead of being serene about the whole
thing, as he usually was, Leon seemed almost to wish he hadn't set
the plan in motion. For a couple of nights he had no guests at all
and went to bed at the outlandish hour, for him, of ten-fifteen. The
following day, Philippe arrived with Marcelle Latour for lunch.

Catherine came upon them suddenly, on the terrace, where they

were taking a drink with Leon. She greeted them and Philippe saw
her seated, across the low table from himself, beside Leon.
Marcelle, in modish black with a carved ivory necklace, looked
like a sleds kitten. Her hair, which had been untidy for the
bohemian set, had now been slicked back and cut shorter, giving
shape and a certain elegance to her head and her long slim neck.

"I trust you are well, madame?" she said, gently stressing the last
word. "And your little son?"

"He's very fit, thank you." And to Philippe, politely, "I hope Yvette
is not missing her former companions too much?"

"She will survive," he said, appraising her coolly. "You will have
wine?"

"I'll wait till lunch, thanks."

She sat back while Leon and Philippe exchanged a few items of
interest. She couldn't think of a word to say to Marcelle, and the
French girl looked into the distance with a smile on her lips, as if
she didn't want her thoughts interrupted, anyway.

They went indoors for lunch: consomm, langouste, veal pie, cold
chicken, salad, fruit and several cheeses. Philippe served Marcelle
and persuaded her to eat plenty. To Catherine he remarked with a
trace of acid:

"You have no appetite? Perhaps the mid-morning refreshment was

a little heavy."

Leon took this up at once. "Have you been out with that Manning
fellow again?"

"Yes," she answered evenly. "Do you mind?"

"A lot you'd care if I did. Why don't you bring him here?"

Catherine glanced pointedly towards Marcelle, who was busy with

a peach, and replied, "I think you and he are best apart."

"Is he coming on the cruise?"

"I don't think so."

"Well, that's something. But I don't want you building up a case for
yourself, against me. The fellow can- come here if he wants to."

"I'll tell him that."

"And tell him in the right tone," growled Leon.

Philippe put in diplomatically, "You will be glad to get away,
Leon. The heat has made you touchy. I am thinking of taking a
holiday myself. My new partner is now acquainted with most of
my patients, and this is the off-season in Nice; even the hospital
has a bed or two to spare."

"Well, my dear chap, go on the cruise with us! I can even

rearrange the dates if you say the word."

"I cannot be away for three weeks, my friend - two weeks at the
most."

"You could fly back after a couple of weeks, or join us a week late.
Do your best, Philippe!"

He shook his head. "I plan to see friends in Paris and Lille. Also, I
have promised to drive Marcelle up to her home at Aix-en-
Provence if it can be managed. Another year, perhaps, Leon."

"These days I hate putting things off. Getting old, I guess." He

turned once more to Catherine. "We're sailing next Friday, if all
goes well, and I propose giving a big party on Tuesday - sort of
farewell, and to introduce you to the people who'll be on the yacht.
You see that that cousin of yours is invited."

"Very well."

"And, Philippe, I'll expect you and Mademoiselle Latour. Your

sister too, if she'll come."

"Yvette will come," said Philippe, "and so will Marcelle. As for

myself," with a shrug, "I am in the hands of my patients, but I will
ask my partner to take over for the evening unless there is a late
emergency on that day." He was silent for a moment, then said,
"Yvette is giving a small dinner party at our house tomorrow. I
know you dislike going to the local villas in the evening, Leon<."

"Detest it."

"But perhaps Catherine would care to come."

"Thank you. I'd like to."

Marcelle leaned forward. "With the big handsome cousin, of

course," she said eagerly. "I saw him at the auberge one day. He
looks most dependable."

"He is," said Catherine, and would have left it there.

But Leon said abruptly, "It's the plodding, dependable type you
have to watch. They're like bulldogs - they fasten on to something
and won't let go. I don't like the chap."

"You don't have to," Catherine remarked mildly, and she looked at
Philippe. "After all this, is Hugh still invited to your house?"

"But of course. We shall need him to make the even number."

Which came rather close to an insult, she thought, but if Philippe

had meant it that way he gave no sign. In fact, he was already
talking about something else.

As soon as they had drunk coffee the two guests departed. Philippe
put Marcelle into the front seat of his car, smiled some comment to
which she returned one of her own, and they both waved with the
correct degree of enthusiasm and charm.

"Nice girl," grunted Leon as he returned to his chair. "I'm glad you
reminded me of her existence. I've never thought of asking
Philippe to bring a woman companion with him, but I shan't forget
from now on. Did he say he's taking her to her home at Aix?"

"Yes."

Leon smiled sourly. "Very correct, these French. They always like
to meet the parents early on in the relationship. The minute they've
kissed the girl they go right along and weigh up the prospective in-
laws." He gave her a glare from under the brows. "That would play
the devil with your independence, wouldn't it? You wouldn't do for
a Frenchman!"

"You seem to delight in needling me, all of a sudden,"

"Nothing sudden about it. I've been trying to shake acquiescence

into you ever since you came here."

She felt tight about the chest. "Only over Timothy," she said. "But
now you seem to have it in for me personally. When we were on
the yacht yesterday I thought..."

"I know what you thought." He took a cigar from his top pocket
and inspected the tip of it. "I've got plans and I don't want you
spoiling them with that damned cousin of yours. You needn't think
I'll let you take the boy to Hong Kong!"

"So that's it. You needn't worry, though if I did take Timothy away
it would relieve you of quite a burden. I'm sure you haven't been so
happy since we've been here." . .

He gave her a sharp look. "You're smart, but not quite smart
enough, or you might have got at the reason I'm fed up with myself
and everyone else." He made a rare concession, in savage tones. "I
don't mind having you here. I like spirit in a woman; if I'd had a
wife with spirit I might have been a better husband. And it does
me good to have the boy around; he's cissified and much too
pretty, but hidden away under the curls and fancy shirts he's got
just a faint spark of the old man. It'll never fan into a blaze, but it
might smoulder a bit. No, I haven't got much against you. or Tim.
But you're right. I'm not too happy about the two of you, either. Or
about myself." He glared at her and stood up. "I'll have my cigar
on my own. I want to enjoy it."

Catherine let out a long breath as she watched him go. Intuitively,
she knew that something was eating at him quite badly, and it
didn't need intuition to know that he was a man who had felt very
little inside himself and in any case could not talk about it. It was
strange to think that a man of his age, who had handled
tremendous companies and millions of pounds of investors'
money, should be inept at deal- ling with his own personal
problems. He had neglected his wife, shed Ewart as if he were a
tight glove and generally ignored the gentler things of life because,
to his way of thinking, they showed no dividend. She wished there
were something she could do about it, but knew there was nothing.

The cruise would be a help, the cruise and Lucille. Perhaps that
was it; he'd come to the point of wanting Lucille as his wife and
was considering the whole matter closely.

And what he saw left him with an unpleasant taste in his mouth.
Perhaps he even wished himself penniless, so that he could assess
just how much he did mean to his friends.

Oh, no, she was letting her imagination take over. Leon Verender
might regret a few things, but he could never be other than the man
he was: powerful, moneyed, generous and fond of battle. Maybe
there was a very simple reason for his mood; like indigestion or
twinges of rheumatism, reminding him of his age!
Catherine found a book and began to read, but she couldn't
concentrate. It was worrying, the way the days and weeks passed,
unsettled, nagging, frustrating. Before coming to Pontrieux she had
expected some trouble with Leon, but all the rest had been
unknown territory. Now she knew it all too well. Lucille d'Esperez,
who was as potent as a courtesan; Hugh's arrival, which had not
been the unalloyed joy it should have been. And Philippe, of
course. It made her ache just to see his name behind her eyelids.
She ought to have declined, very politely, that invitation to dinner.
An evening of his chilling smile for herself and warm glances for
Marcelle was hardly likely to induce a sound night's sleep, to say
the least.

But when she went indoors a little later she telephoned Hugh to
tell him of the date. He expressed foreboding but willingness to try
it out.

"After all," he said reasoningly, "the Frenchwoman can't be too

eccentric in her own house, can she?"

"I'll be there to look after you."

"That should help. Shall I pick you up in this bus I've got? It's been
bucking a bit."

"I'll call for you - it's almost on the way. And, Hugh .., I don't think
I'll go out again today, and I may not be able to get down during
the day tomorrow. So shall we say seven tomorrow evening?
Right. Goodbye."

Slackly, she went upstairs. For perhaps five minutes she stood in
Timothy's room, looking out of the window or at his untroubled
little face. She longed to waken him, to hold his warm body close
and feel his arms tighten round her neck. Instead, she went into her
own room and looked through her clothes. Not one of the select
models from Nice; a plain white with slim-fitting top and pencil
skirt that she had bought in London.

The following evening, when she had got into the dress and was
fastening an amber necklace about her throat, Catherine felt more
herself.

After a day at the villa it was good to be driving away into the
warm darkness. She wouldn't think ahead too far - not beyond
Hugh, at the inn. The air was sweet after the heavy heat of the day,
and the sea, with a moon cutting a silver path through it, had an
allure she could not yet take for granted. The magic of warm
sensuous nights, distant music, wine on a terrace above palms; it
was inseparable from the Cote d'Azur.

Hugh was waiting just outside the lamplit inn, and as he slipped
into the car beside her he patted her hand. In a grey lounge suit he
looked slimmer and he appeared to be undismayed.

"I've missed you today," he said, as they moved on, "but I took the
opportunity of timing up the engine of the old jalopy. I had a
mechanic helping me - believe it or not, I knew more about the
thing than he did. Anyway, it should do a few hundred miles
without more trouble." He gazed at her again. "You look fit to eat."

"Thank you. I've had a restful day. Before I forget it, you're invited
to a jollification at the Villa Chaussy next Tuesday. A big affair -
did you bring a dinner jacket?"

"Yes. Should I have worn it tonight?"

"Oh, no. You look wonderful. This do at the villa is a sort of

sending-off party, for the cruise."

"I wish you weren't going on that cruise."

"So do I, in a way. I'm only going to please Leon. It's odd, but I
find I like him immensely and I'd do a lot to make him happy."

"Good heavens. Don't you argue with him any more?"

"Yes, of course. If I didn't he'd be quite hurt. I do wish he loved

Timothy."

"Old Moneybags doesn't love anyone. Look at the way he treated

Ewart."

"Leon hadn't retired then." She didn't say anything more about him
because somehow Hugh seemed to have developed a few blind
spots out East. "Are you braced to meet your charmer?"

"I think I probably exaggerated about her a little," he said casually.

"She had me at a disadvantage because I didn't know the district,
and I got steamed up. And I thought over what you said - about her
being unhappy and bored. What is she unhappy about?"

Catherine flickered a glance at him. "I daresay she feels rather

useless; she says she does. She was engaged once, but broke it off
because she wasn't in love.''

"I call that strong-minded."

"In a way it was. But since she's turned away from that side of life
she's felt wasted, redundant. She's twenty-nine."

"Is she?" He sounded relieved. "I thought she was about twenty-
five. Does she always make fun of men?"

"Not to my knowledge. You were special."

"Cut it out," he said gruffly.

She smiled, and a minute or two later turned on to the drive of the
Sellier villa and brought the car to a halt just behind a black sedan.
Together they went into the porch, and there they were met by a
very modestly attired Yvette. She wore a simple smoky blue dress
and a single row of amethysts.

" 'Allo!" she said cordially, and took both of Catherine's hands.
Then she turned those exasperating eyes towards Hugh. "Good
evening, Mr. Manning, how nice that you could come. I have been
practising that sentence just for you."

Catherine said, "You're not to tease Hugh. He might retaliate."

Yvette put a warning finger to her lips. "No one knows about that
little escapade. If Philippe heard ..." She lifted both hands and her
shoulders in horror. "He is out just now, but Marcelle would tell
him if she knew. I promise to behave impeccably this evening. Let
us go in."

The other guests were astonishingly unlike Yvette's usual

selection. Marcelle, of course, but there was an orthopaedic man
from Nice with his wife, a local squire who owned miles of olive
orchards and his wife, and a swarthy lawyer with his middle-aged
daughter. All of them exceedingly polite and anxious to be
friendly. French and English became intermingled into one
language and quite soon the atmosphere was festive.

At eight o'clock Yvette sighed philosophically. "Someone has

inconveniently detained Philippe. He should not be long, but I
think we should start dinner at once. Would you prefer to wait for
him, Marcelle?"

Marcelle gave a restrained little nod. "Please go and start I will

wait in here for Philippe and we will come in together."
I shouldn't have come, thought Catherine; physically, I feel fine,
able to face the whole world - but this kind of thing is devitalising.

She went into the dining-room behind Yvette, took the chair that
was indicated as hers. Hugh was at her left and the old lawyer at
her right. The centrepiece, she thought detachedly, had been
arranged with some care; a long wooden leaf covered by camellia
heads. Yvette's work, not the maid's. But the maid had no doubt
accomplished the cooking, and very good cooking it was. An
excellent soup, tiny fish rolls, filet mignon, chicken braised in
wine with tender asparagus tips, small peas, french beans and
scalloped potatoes. Then a most delectable mixture of chopped
fresh fruits in a flan, with the usual cheeses to follow.

Philippe and Marcelle came in as Martha set the chicken on the

table. After apologising and seating Marcelle, he greeted each
person with charm and propriety. The middle-aged spinster first,
then the two wives, then Catherine, then the men. To Hugh, the
only stranger, he said, as he took his own place at the head of the
table:

"I trust you will have a most enjoyable holiday here at Pontrieux.
If you wish to know more of the district I have a large library on
the subject. Please consider it at your disposal."

Hugh accepted the privilege gracefully, but lifted a brow at

Catherine. He wasn't accustomed to dealing with courteous steel-
eyed French doctors. A little cold-eyed Philippe might be, but his
arrival seemed to have infused the gathering with more life and
zest. Obviously he liked these people, and there is no better recipe
for making guests feel happy and wanted. Just as obviously, he had
wished Yvette's bohemian friends elsewhere, and they had found
him impatient and unyielding.
The meal progressed cheerfully, with the French wives talking
about their children, the men discussing the crops of olives and
law cases and the effects of summer on the populace, while the rest
joined in with them or merely listened. For coffee and cognac they
went outside, where tape-recorded music filled the moon shot
night. Catherine shared a rattan seat with Yvette, and Hugh sat
nearby, contentedly smoking. The guests spread out along the front
of the villa between the lights from the windows and a couple of
post- lights which illuminated this end of the drive, talked and
laughed the gentle laugh of repletion.

Yvette remained lively. "You see?" she said to Catherine, "I can be
a model doctor's sister. This is not just what you call a flash in the
saucepan. I am like this much of the time. It happened that you
came to Pontrieux when I had become ennuyee, and had sought
out the old friends who daub and write bad poetry. This," with a
flick of her hand over her skirt, "is the real Yvette Sellier."

"And she's an enchanting person," commented Catherine. "Don't

you think so, Hugh?"

He looked at the half smiling, enigmatic face of Yvette. "She's

pretty good," he said cautiously, "but next time I'll be the one who
says where we're going for tea."

"So there will be a next time! Thank you, mon brave. I do not
deserve it."

"No, you don't," said the practical Hugh. "If you came to England
for the first time you wouldn't find people leading you up the
garden path."

"Is that somewhere naughty - the garden path?"

He ignored the question. "Have you ever been to England?"

"Several times, in my teens."

"Do you like it?"

"I like London, and your Lakes if they were not so cold."

"Our beaches aren't like yours."

"No, but I am not a beach-lover. You have beaches in Hong

Kong?'

"Oh, yes - they're not like yours, either. Are you interested in the
Far East?"

"I like oriental art, so possibly I should like the oriental people.
Some day I shall travel, and when I come to Hong Kong I shall
visit you. By then I shall be grey with two chins."

"I leave there next year," he said, "and you'll never have a double
chin. You're much too thin."

She laughed. "You are the most serious man I ever met. You are
too old!"

"I suppose I am," he said gloomily. "Soon I'll be thirty- eight, with
one foot in the grave."

"Foolish one! Thirty-eight is a fascinating age. You are old in your

mind, not in years. Do you dance?"

"Not this modern gymnastics."

"Then we shall be old-fashioned. Listen. Do you know that song?"

She hummed a few bars with the music. "It is about a girl who sees
the face of her dead lover in the Seine."
"Good lord! That's horrible."

"But it is a very good tune. Come, we will dance to it, With your
permission, Catherine?"

"He's not mine," said Catherine. "Dance away." Watching them,

Catherine knew that Yvette was putting on an act. She wasn't
bohemian, but she wasn't this bubbling creature either. She was
something in between, with a solid French matronly backbone.
Would Hugh find that out? More to the point, would Yvette give
him the chance to find it out?

Hugh and Yvette? It was hardly likely. Yvette was using him as a
foothold on her way out of boredom, and Hugh was merely
enjoying a Frenchwoman in her own country. He was trying very
hard to pick up the steps she insisted on teaching him.

Another couple joined them - the olive-oil king with Marcelle. She
moved languidly, had that infuriating faraway smile on her lips as
though she were looking into a future that was all roses, with never
a thorn. She'd find out that marriage wasn't like that, but with
Philippe ...

He came and lowered himself into the seat beside Catherine,

offered cigarettes and lighted them. "You did not wish to dance?"
he asked.

"I haven't danced for a long time - at least, I did try it out once
with Michael Dean, in Nice, but we didn't have time to get going. I
used to love dancing."

"Would you care to try with me?"

"No, thank you," she said quickly.

"No, thank you to the dancing or no, thank you to me?" There was
a faint sharpness under his mockery. It was peculiar, thought
Catherine, noticing a tremor in her own fingers, how swiftly they
could slip into antagonism, even among others on a night like this.
Any subject might start the slide and momentum would manage
the rest.

She made an effort to climb back. "I'm not in a dancing mood."

And without a pause, "Yvette is looking much better, don't you
think? I've never seen her so vivacious."

He said, with a cynical inflection, "So we speak of Yvette. Bien.

Yes, she has recovered from the pseudo-intellectuals and now
decides the English are steady and strong. You need have no fear;
she will not entice your cousin from your side. She has no taste for
conquests." Catherine said nothing, and he asked, "How is Leon
today?"

"He was with friends when I left this evening, and seemed quite
happy. But there is something wrong, isn't there? Is it physical?"

"No, he has a splendid constitution. He is worried about something

he does not care to discuss."

"Not even with you - a man?"

Philippe sounded sardonic and even slightly jaded as he answered,

"A man does have certain things in his life which it is not possible
to tell others. Interference from one's friends at such times is an
impertinence."

"I realise that." She watched her fingers Aids ash from her
cigarette. "So what do we do - wait and see?"
"The cruise will help." He put a firm finger under her chin and
turned her head, so that She must meet his eyes. "Till then, be
good to him. No arguments, and if he is ill-humoured bear with
him as you would bear with your own father."

She drew back from his touch. "I'm fond of Leon," she said.

"But you still find it easy to fight with him about the child." His
voice changed. "I like children; the smaller my patients, the more
rewarding my work. If it were not for the fact of my affection for
the people of my own district I would transfer to Nice and
specialise as a children's doctor, because there is nothing finer than
a thoroughly healthy child. At the same time, there is nothing more
nauseating than the kind of maternal love that pampers and
coddles and places the child on a pedestal. Do not protest," with
sudden hard lights in his eyes. "I am not Leon!"

"And as you're not," she said, aware of a sudden heavy hammering

in her breast, "you've no right to speak to me like that. I've gone to
extreme lengths not to spoil Timothy. I thought you accepted that."

He snapped his fingers irritably. "You say one thing and act
another. You are no more in love with this cousin of yours than
you are with Michael Dean, yet you are contemplating marrying
him in order that Timothy shall have a father who will permit you
to continue the child's education in your own way. To me, that is
the most despicable reason for marriage - to take a man ..." He
stopped abruptly, drew an audible breath. "I beg your pardon. It
was unforgivable of me to speak to you like that here, when you
are my guest. When 1 came over to you I had no intention of it, I
assure you." He ground out his cigarette. "They have finished
dancing. I will send your cousin to you."
He almost clicked his heels as he half bowed, and Catherine, her
nerves taut, watched him move away towards the group which
Marcelle had joined. He was with them hardly a moment. The
maid was there, with a message-in one hand and his bag in
another. Philippe shrugged, took the bag and said something which
drew nods of understanding. He took Marcelle's elbow, and
together they went down to his car, got in and drove away.

Starkly, Catherine was reminded of the night she had gone with
him into the mountains, the half-ruined hovel, the boy with the
gangrenous foot. Philippe's fingers bruising her shoulders, the
violence of his reaction when She had disobeyed him. Would there
be an experience like that for Marcelle? Catherine didn't think so.
As a wife Marcelle would be good and obedient, and when he was
away for long hours she'd make graceful pieces of sculpture for the
house.

At Catherine's side Hugh was saying, "While we were dancing she

told me about that chap she was engaged to. I told her she'd treated
him disgustingly, leaving it till the day before the wedding before
breaking it off, and do you know what? She said it was the first
time anyone had said it outright. They'd thought it, but they hadn't
said it."

Catherine nodded, as though she had heard. "I must have lain too
long in the sun today; I'm a bit headachey. I think I'll leave soon,
but you don't have to. One of these couples will be only too happy
to give you a lift to town."

"Poor old girl," he said. "Too bad."

Too bad indeed, thought Catherine dully as she went into the
house for -her scarf.
There was much activity at the Villa Chaussy during the next few
days. The party was in the capable hands of Antoine, but though
his discreetness kept the details of preparation very much in the
background there were certain items which had to be attended to
more or less in public. The draping of coloured lanterns among the
trees, for instance, and the new floodlamps to replace the not-so-
new ones at the swimming pool. Old Brulard set his men to
summer pruning, so that stray branches would not catch the ladies'
skirts, and the lawns were shorn close and watered to give just the
right degree of thickness, though the old man murmured darkly
about spike heels and careless smokers.

Chandeliers in the large, rarely used salon sparkled from soap and
water, furniture gleamed more lustrously than ever and every day
new flower arrangements appeared on the dining table and on the
wall tables in the beautiful entrance hall. Catherine was asked her
opinion of these.

"The fan shape, madame? It has a certain elegance, but is a little

too stiff for madame's taste? The gentle line of yesterday, perhaps -
pastel blues and yellows with the soft sprays of white jasmine
hiding the bowl? Or the classic L shape? It looks," Antoine kissed
the tips of his fingers, "as though the flowers were growing there,
does it not? But I share your doubts, madame. It is a little too -
how shall we say? - forced. And it is not an arrangement one can
repeat for the various wall tables. For repetition in one room ...
yes, madame, I must agree with you. The gentle line!"

Catherine was also consulted about the guest rooms. They had sent
out sixty invitations which meant roughly a hundred and twenty
guests. Of these, several would come from Monte Carlo, others
from Cannes and Nice. Those from long distances would be
accommodated for the night in the guest suites, and Madame
Brulard had set the housemaids to work upstairs, airing and
polishing and making up the beds. Ten rooms, twenty beds, and a
divan in each private sitting-room in case it should be needed. That
meant there might be thirty staying overnight.

By Catherine's standards, the whole affair was a colossal

extravagance, but somehow she understood Leon's need for
display of his wealth. It wasn't a mean need, but a bounteous one,
typical of his beneficence. He was a big and colourful personality
and it wasn't difficult for him to reconcile his considerable list of
charities with his expenditure on entertaining.

He himself ignored the party preparations. He lunched out and did

not return to the villa till the day's activities were over. For two
nights he and Catherine dined alone, quietly and companionably,
but on Sunday Lucille came for dinner. It seemed she had been
away for three days, visiting an aunt; it also seemed that she had
returned in sparkling good humour.

"I come back to find everyone talking of your party, Leon! They
are still recalling the magnificence of your house party at
Christmas. We had such good times then, you remember? And this
one will be memorable also. Myself, I am torn between this affair
and anticipation of the cruise." She helped herself to a spoonful of
curried lamb, chose chutney and grated coconut from the
condiment dish and went on, with an agreeable smile, "You have
seen the clothes Catherine chose last week? Chic, non? Marguerite
says she would rather dress your daughter-in-law than any other
woman in Nice, and Raoul is ecstatic about her colouring. I tell
you, Catherine, you are a lucky young woman. Tres fortunee!"

"You're a fairly lucky person yourself, Lucille," said Leon. "You're

clever and beautiful and you know how to delight a man - which is
more than can be said of most younger women."
Lucille glowed; there seemed to be a new richness under her skin
that shone through like dark honey. "A compliment from you, my
dear, is worth a hundred from any other man. Thank you." She
picked daintily at the tiny mound of curry. "May I help in any way
with the arrangements for this party?"

"I want to know nothing about it," said Leon. "They've called in
Catherine. That should be enough."

"So?" Lucille showed no displeasure, but she commented, "Will it

not be difficult for you to know what is necessary, Catherine?
After all, you have lived in France only a short time, and in
England ., -. I would say your parties there were on a smaller scale,
were they not?"

Catherine nodded. "I've done very little - only given an opinion

here and there. Madame Brulard has charge of the catering and the
bedrooms."

"Ah ... I had almost forgotten." Lucille turned her most charming
smile upon Leon. "I wonder if I could stay here that night? I have
promised to lend my car to a friend for a month - while we are
away on the cruise - and I said it would be available from
Wednesday. My friend finds she now has to leave Nice on
Tuesday. I will take a taxi here that evening ..."

"No need," said Leon. "I'll send for you."

"Thank you, cheri. But the party will end late and your cars may
be needed for others. A divan in a corner somewhere?"

Divan in a corner my foot, thought Catherine. Lucille intended to

be the first here on Tuesday and the last away on Wednesday; it
was another little ruse to publicise her grasp on Leon and the villa.
"They'll find you a room," Leon said.

"If it becomes necessary," said Catherine, "I can sleep in Timothy's

playroom and a couple of guests can use my room."

"You'll do nothing of the sort," he declared. "We've plenty of

space for those who'll need it. Antoine! Serve the roast duckling."

Lucille allowed her scarcely touched plate to be taken away and

another to take its place. She chose her meat carefully, added one
vegetable and some salad, and sat back to drink her wine while the
other two were served.

"It is a most pleasant idea, this saying farewell in such a

magnificent fashion, before the cruise. Only you would think of
such a thing, Leon."

"It's not only because of the cruise," he said. "It's time Catherine
met my friends properly ... and it's partly for you too, Lucille."

"For ... me?" For just a second it looked as if she wouldn't be able
to control the swift triumphant smile. She managed it, though.
"But how extraordinarily sweet of you, Leon! I am intensely
grateful."

But by now Leon had had more than enough of the subject. He ate
little, without speaking, and after they had had coffee he said he
hoped they wouldn't mind if he went to his study. He had to go
through a lot of papers which must be posted to London tomorrow.

After he had left them, Lucille lingered in the small salon. She
walked round touching the curios and running a finger over the
canvases on the walls. Catherine wished she would go; the very
sight of the long possessive hands gliding over rich old porcelain
and bronzes set her teeth on edge. But Lucille was enjoying
herself.

"They are worth much, these things, yet they are only a trifle of the
value of the house and its other contents. It has been Leon's
passion - the surrounding himself with rare and beautiful things."
She laughed softly. "That is why he wants to marry me - the most
beautiful woman he could find. It is also," with an amiable smile at
Catherine, "why he has come to like you, though you are not of the
type he most admires. Tell me," very casually, "has he offered you
a settlement?"

"No. I wouldn't take it if he did."

"How very stupid," Lucille said mildly. "And the little boy - is he
officially provided for, or simply the heir?"

"I've no idea. It may interest you to know that -Dr. Sellier told me
only the other day that Leon has an iron constitution."

"Tiens, you grow angry, I was merely interested. It is a rich man's

duty to arrange his affairs. Thoroughly healthy men have been
stricken suddenly, in middle age." She found a gilt-framed mirror
on the wall and stood considering her reflection. "You are not
afraid that I might influence Leon against you after we are
married?'"

"Why should you do that?"

"Because you dislike me, perhaps, and would be jealous of my

monopoly of Leon's affections. And also because I would have
authority here, which you, no doubt, would try to challenge. That
situation is one I could not support."

"You're not married to Leon yet, are you?"

"I would hardly speak to you like this if I were. But you must see
that it is time we had an understanding on this matter of our
relationship - yours and mine. You heard Leon say that this party
will have some significance for me?"

"He didn't put it like that."

"I know Leon. He has not the ways of other men, but I have come
to know them. He would not have told me that the party was partly
for me without a sound reason. And 1 can guess that reason."

Catherine was tired and rather upset. "I thought you'd decided he
would propose to you on the cruise. I must say that for a woman
who professes to be awfully sure of a man, you're a bit vague."

Lucille turned and rested her dark, unsmiling gaze upon an

ornament which stood in an alcove just above Catherine's head.
"You have a good deal to learn about the world of your father-in-
law. He is not an ordinary man and therefore he does not approach
the crises of his life in an ordinary way. But as I have said before, I
know Leon. I do not expect a proposal on Tuesday."

Catherine looked at the long lovely features which now were

almost expressionless. "What other significance could the party
have for you?"

Lucille made the motions of a shrug, but left it incomplete. "He

has no doubt formed a plan - he plans everything. On Tuesday he
will prepare the way for the proposal. He will give me the
necklace."

"Oh, the necklace," said Catherine flatly.

"It is here - do you know that? Here in this house. I have naturally
been interested in it, and this morning I telephoned my contact...
my friend at the jewellers. He said it had been delivered to Leon.
And he told me something more. My initials have been engraved
on the platinum setting of the clasp."

"Then you're probably right; he'll give it to you on Tuesday."

Lucille picked up a sequined purse. "If Leon is going to work

tonight there is no point in my staying. You will see about my
room for Tuesday night?"

"I'll tell Madame Brulard."

"I prefer not to face east; I have a horror of the sun in the early
morning." She paused and smiled. "Perhaps on the cruise you and I
will come to appreciate and understand each other. So long as you
do not become avaricious there will be plenty for both of us.
Adieu!"

The sound of Lucille's car had faded away before Catherine was
able to take the long breath her lungs needed. When she went
upstairs her knees were trembling and her vision blurred. For the
first time since coming to Pontrieux she felt utterly defeated.
CHAPTER NINE

On Tuesday, in spite of the vast amount of extra work which

would be demanded of them, the staff were all eagerness and
smiles. Masses of flowers were delivered from a local flower farm
- Leon never denuded his own gardens for the house - and there
seemed to be an endless stream of tradesmen at the back of the
villa. No smell of cooking penetrated to the front of the house, but
occasionally, when the heavy inner door opened, you might hear a
snatch of song or a cheerful laugh. Eight people were working on
the preparation of "food, all of them, except a chef who had been
hired from one pf the big hotels in Nice, under the direction of
Madame Brulard. The chef, Catherine learned, was an artist in
creating eatables which were architecturally aesthetic and tasted
like the food of heaven. Tonight, his "shapes" were to follow a
theme based on the cruise. What would the rich think up next? she
wondered. Timothy was caught up in the atmosphere. He tore
about on his bicycle, checking up on the tradesmen's entrance and
the kitchen and reporting back to Catherine whenever he had a
titbit of news. Michael Dean was nearly frantic: Leon had
disappeared and there were documents needing his signature and
some cables which called for immediate reply.

By evening, though, a quiet expectancy had settled over the villa.

Timothy had worn himself out and was very happy to have his
supper in his own playroom, particularly as the chef had concocted
a special little shape for le petit garcon who had appeared so
regularly at the kitchen door. This was a rabbit of many colours -
chopped fruits in a green jelly; somehow, even the ears remained
erect till Timothy was ready to eat them.

After he was in bed, Catherine had her bath and dressed. Tonight
she had to wear one of the Nice models, and because Leon had
once said, "White suits you," she put on a white lace which had a
silver thread in it. It was the sort of dress you dream about when
you're young and romantic, and as Catherine examined its flowing
lines in the mirror she felt a pang of sadness; for just that moment
she would have given anything to be Catherine Harvey. Not any
younger, but,.. but just Catherine Harvey.

The next second she chided herself for disloyalty to Leon. She was
doing this for him, and for him she would be bright and gay and as
good-looking as she could make herself. As far as she was
concerned there was only one thing against her wearing white; it
made tier hair look alarmingly red. A plain row of pearls, or
nothing at all? Bare shoulders needed something at the throat; yes,
the pearls.

It was only seven-thirty when she went downstairs, and no one

was expected before eight; it was that kind of party. But she
wanted to see the completed salon before it was overrun.

The double doors from the hall, which were usually closed with
one of the inlaid tables against them, were wide open, and the
chandeliers shed a brilliance over the long, grey- panelled room.
The chairs, gold and blue striped silk and green damask, were set
in fours round low tables all along the edges of the Aubusson
carpet, and extra chairs and stools lined the walls. Flowers and
trailing plants decorated the panelling, and between them hung
landscapes and a still life or two.

The magnet in the salon was the buffet, set against the far wall.
Catherine approached it almost fearfully, in case even her small
vibrations might jar something out of place. Heavens, what a
scene! The three-foot model of the Francette in the centre
background, and arranged below and in front of it a vastly
interesting and amusing collection of shapes in delicious foods.
Each was labelled in spidery script on a narrow card. The Leaning
Tower of Pisa, the Mont Chevalier tower at Cannes, the Chateau at
Antibes, the Palais Long- champs at Marseilles. There were many
of the intricate structures, and between them stood pairs of dressed
puppetlike figures made from sponge fingers and buns, pistachio
and cherries, almonds and olives and cocktail sticks. Each pair,
being French, represented a youth and a maid, sightseeing, and
small bubbles of laughter escaped from Catherine as she studied
them. They were cute and almost human; she wished Timothy
could see them.

Stretching away on each side of this lavish display were the dozens
of dishes of savouries of every imaginable kind, whole chickens
and hams, a glazed sucking pig flanked by ox-tongues, plates and
cutlery, napkins and finger-bowls. The bar had been set up in the
small salon, which opened into this one, and the big arched alcove
between the french windows was already furnished with the chairs,
piano and drums of the orchestra who had practised here
yesterday.

Unheard, Leon had approached across the carpet. He wore a white

dinner-jacket, was immaculately brushed and shaved, and carried
himself with his usual arrogance. He appraised Catherine, turned a
jaundiced eye upon the buffet.

"You look fine," he said, "but that flight of fancy has a bilious look
to me. Thank God I only have to provide it, not to eat any of it.
Have you met the Baron?"

"I didn't know he was here."

"They're upstairs. They got here an hour ago and the Baroness had
to change from the suit she'd travelled in from Monte Carlo.
Apparently she doesn't sit down in this thing she's wearing tonight.
She's going to get tired."
"Do you really like these parties? she asked him.

"I used to - not any more, though."

"But you like the people?"

"Sure I do. Stop asking questions." He nodded towards the door

that led into the small salon. "We'll receive them in there till it
overflows, then gradually move in here. Take off those pearls -
they look phoney."

"They're simulated," she admitted, "but very good ones. I'd rather
keep them on."

"Suit yourself." He opened the door and waved her into the other
room. "Let's fortify ourselves. I'll mix you an ordinary gin and
vermouth, without frills. The boy sleeping all right?"

"Yes. He won't wake up; he was flat out."

"I'm a bit tired myself. I played golf morning and afternoon."

"Why did you do that? You knew this evening"

"I did it because I wanted to," he said pugnaciously. "When I play

golf I never think of another single thing, only the game. And
mind your own business," he added.

"You mentioned you were tired." She took her drink from him,
waited till he had lifted his own and raised her glass towards him.
"Here's to you."

He made no answer but let her sip first, before tasting his own
drink. After that she admired the bar which had been erected - or
rather wheeled in from some room where it was normally stored -
to hide the wall between the two windows. By now Catherine was
beyond being surprised at lavish party appointments, but her eyes
did widen at the array of its dishes of canaps and ice buckets and
other impedimenta of the barman's trade.

Lucille was not one of the first arrivals, after all. She had had to
wait for the Cadillac and share it with two others who were picked
up on the way back to the villa. But she was among the first
twenty, and by far the most eye-catching of them.

She wore black with a slim necklace of aquamarines and matching

ear-rings, and she moved to Leon's side and stayed there, greeting
the other guests as they arrived. They were an arresting trio: Leon,
with his grey hair that was white at the temples and fine shoulders
in the perfectly tailored white jacket, the woman in black and the
younger woman in white. Had they planned between them they
could not have been better foils for each other. A study in blacks
and whites, with a touch of aquamarine and light titian red.

They began to arrive in droves: Count and Countess This,

Monsieur and Madame That, Sir Aubrey Something with his lady,
Lord Vellamure and his fiance, Monsieur and Madame ... That
was how it went Catherine lost track of them all.

It was half-past eight when the Selliers arrived, with Marcelle

Latour. And who should make up the foursome but Hugh
Manning.

"Your English cousin," said Lucille, very sweetly. "You have done
your duty here, Catherine. Go with him and mingle."

Yvette, standing in the doorway to the main salon, was quietly

gay. "What a place this is! At Christmas, you know, there was a
tree as big as one of our cedars in that corner, and each of us was
given a most handsome present. Mine was a fitted evening purse
with actually a real sapphire in the top of the lipstick case, and
Philippe's was a gold pen and pencil set... initialled!" She slanted a
provocative glance at Hugh. "If you were here for Christmas
Monsieur Verender would no doubt give you a large and very fine
coach-hide suitcase."

"Why a suitcase?"

"You should have said, 'Why coach-hide?' And I would have

answered, 'It is the strongest leather in the world, and the English
always prefer the thing that lasts to the thing that is beautiful.' Are
your feelings hurt, mon ami?"

"Only lacerated," said Hugh, astonishingly. "Take your choice

from the tray of drinks."

Like half the women here, Yvette wore black, but it was relieved
by a cerise sash which formed a stiff bow and streamers at the
back. Marcelle wore soft green in a style which reminded
Catherine that she was a sculptor; there was something faintly
Greek about it, but it suited her long neck and swathed hair-style.

Philippe, of course ,., Catherine didn't quite look at him, but she
knew exactly how he looked. Suave, smiling, well turned out, the
courteous Frenchman to the fingertips. He drank one whisky, took
a long time over it, and talked, from the edge of their group, to an
older man who had driven in from Villefranche.

The drift towards the buffet began, the exclamations and chatter, a
call for the chef. He arrived in his tall white hat, a grey little man
who accepted their toast as he had no doubt been accepting toasts
for thirty years, with smiles and nods. He disappeared, and
Antoine and his regiment of waiters were in charge. The orchestra
had been playing for some time, but it was only now that Catherine
noticed it. They had chosen popular light classics for this part of
the evening, and though they were hardly listened to, the scene
would not have been complete without them.

Catherine found herself heaping a plate, alongside the others. She

wasn't hungry; the sight of so much food was daunting. But in a
gathering of this kind it was very easy to swallow a morsel or two
and slip one's plate out of sight, behind one of the 'monuments' or
the flowers. It would soon be whisked away by one of Antoine's
satellites. The excitement seemed to be maintained at a fairly high
pitch, and that was really all that mattered.

She drifted from one group to another, tried to remember names

but managed fairly well without them. The men were "charmed"
all over again, the women were graciously interested in this newly-
found daughter-in-law of Leon's, whom most of them were
meeting for the first time. It was a little trying, but she got through,
though by the time she had worked her way Into the hall her head
felt a little tight.

She ran upstairs and looked in on Timothy. It was quiet and cool in
his room, and she knew an odd sense of detachment from the
revelry downstairs, though with the detachment there was a
loneliness that she knew could become acute. In her own room she
mended her make-up. She was halfway towards the head of the
stairs when Lucille appeared.

"Ah, Catherine, be good enough to show me which room I am to

occupy. Naturally, I prefer not to use the rest-room which has been
prepared for the women downstairs."

Catherine led the way, opened a door and switched on the light,
"Your case is in there already. It's the usual single guest-room,"
she said. "And I told Madame Brulard not to put an extra bed in
the room. It faces south."
"Thank you." She paused on the threshold of the room, smiled
commiseratingly. "You must not feel neglected, my dear. I am sure
your cousin would prefer your company to Yvette Sellier's. Go
down and assert yourself."

"Have you everything you want?" Catherine asked politely.

The smile did not change. "Almost everything," came the studied
reply. "And you? You have travelled a long way from the
kindergarten teacher, non? If I were you I would not test my luck
too severely."

She closed the door, and Catherine went quickly downstairs,

Where a few people had overflowed into the hall and outdoors.
She walked outside, took a few deep breaths of the warm night air.
A breeze teased the palms and magnolias, causing a twinkling
among the coloured lamps, and the moon, not quite full, shed its
white light along the paths and made black shadow besides the
shrubs. The grass looked grey; in an hour or two it would be
silvery with dew. It was a fairyland scene; if only the voices would
die and the music become muted

"You have earned a stroll," said Philippe at her side. "Come."

"I'm part hostess. I mustn't leave the house for long."

"The guests no longer need you; they are dispersing in all

directions and those still in the salon are either eating far too much
or discussing the possibility of rolling back the carpet for dancing.
A short walk will do you good."

He took her elbow, guided her through a straggle of people on the

patio and out into the garden. There he let his hand drop to his
side, and after a moment he put it in his pocket.
"You must have been told many times tonight that you look very
beautiful," he said. "What you have not been told is that you also
appeared strained. This affair has been too much for you."

"Of course it hasn't. I'm naturally pale,"

"You are sure you feel quite fit?"

"Perfectly sure."

He let half a minute elapse before saying, coolly, ""Eh, bien, I will
tell you some news. Last night your cousin came to have dinner
with us. There were others there, but he was Yvette's guest. When
all had gone I spoke with Yvette. At first she was flippant, but
soon she said she found Manning attractive. In her own words, he
was like Armand grown up with the added attraction of a
somewhat droll sense of humour. Armand, you may remember,
was her fianc."

Catherine tried to absorb this, but it wasn't easy. At last she said,
"They'll work it out, I suppose. I wouldn't want Yvette to hurt him.
I don't think he's ever had a really serious love affair."

"His love for you is not serious?" he asked curtly.

"His love for me is brotherly. I think they can both do with an

affair of some sort. It might have been Hugh who made Yvette
break so suddenly with her dubious friends; she hasn't bothered
with them since the night we gave her the lift from the auberge."

There was a brief silence before he said, "I guessed you must have
refused to marry him, but I was still uncertain when I grew angry
with you at my house the other night."
"Please don't let's have any sort of scene tonight," she said at once,
not very steadily. "In different ways you've made your point many
times. From now on ... please ... no mention of anything personal.
You're Leon's friend and Timothy's doctor. Tonight, you're a guest
here, with Marcelle, and I happen to be playing hostess."

He stopped and looked at her. His tones were slightly harsh but
accompanied by a smile that looked formidable in the half-
darkness. "We are not friends, you and I? How long is this? Since
that evening when you tried to escape unnoticed from my house
and fell to the landing? You feel I know too much about you... that
as a doctor I would, at that moment, have become aware of your
needs and desires"

To the left of them came the swift glare of floodlights over the
pool. It stopped him. He took a few breaths and said, in a different
voice, "Let us walk to the pool and back to the house. I left
Marcelle with an old friend of mine, but I am afraid she will tire of
him."

They spoke hardly another word to each other. Emerging from a

path overhung by busy palms, they crossed the grass to the wide
marble verge of the pool. Chairs and loungers had been arranged
round the pool, and already a few people were seating themselves
and ordering drinks. Plates of snacks were appearing on the tables,
boxes of cigarettes and cigars, book matches, ashtrays. Taking it
for granted that few would wish to swim, Antoine had had the
surface of the pool scattered with hundreds of full-grown
blossoms. He probably owned a bulky notebook detailing the
requirements for such a function; it was the only way it could
possibly have been handled.
With Philippe, Catherine returned to the house. In the patio they
met Hugh and Yvette. Philippe bowed and went off to join
Marcelle.

"They are preparing the floor for dancing," said Yvette. "If I can
make this cousin of yours dance properly I will die happy!"

"It would be quite an accomplishment, but hardly worth dying

for," Catherine returned as chattily as she was able., "Have you
seen Leon lately?"

"He was with this connoisseur from the Musee des Beaux Arts.
Poor Marcelle had to listen while Philippe took you for your
walk." Yvette smiled and shrugged. "That is one reason why
Marcelle will never be a true sculptor. She is bored by the other
arts!"

Hugh put in, "It's just as well. It must be hell to marry an artist."

The orchestra struck up then, and the three of them moved back
towards the open french windows of the salon. Catherine told the
other two to go ahead and dance, and she herself went in search of
Leon. But he was missing, and eventually she had to dance with
Marcelle and with the tight- robed Baroness; she saw him go out
with Marcelle, no doubt towards the pool.

The dancing continued, but one by one the couples dropped away,
till only a few were left. Hugh had not worn too badly, and
Catherine had noticed a decided improvement in his way of
holding his partner; he didn't clutch as though he might lose her,
but controlled her more with his wrist, which was all to the good in
hot weather.

Antoine caught Catherine between dances, "Monsieur Verender

has asked me to tell Madame that he wishes all the guests to be
assembled near the swimming pool at midnight, It is five minutes
to the hour, madame.'*

"Oh. Where is Monsieur Verender?"

"He and Madame d'Esperez with others went out some time ago."

"I think you'd better tell the orchestra to take a breather, then the
rest of the dancers will go out."

"It is already arranged, madame. The orchestra now have half an

hour's rest and refreshment."

She nodded, and went out into the bright night. Alone, she took
one of the side paths to the pool. There, the people seated along the
marble verges looked crowded and rather garish in the merciless
light of the floodlamps. Leon was sitting with his group at the end
of the pool, and he must have been watching for Catherine, for he
stood up and said clearly,

"Come over here, Catherine. I'm going to make a speech."

She wondered if he'd drunk a little more than usual, but when she
reached him she could tell he hadn't. He had merely set his mind to
something and meant the guests to know it. Lucille's smile was
like the smile of a devil; set, fiendishly contented - a waiting,
watching smile.

Leon remained standing with Catherine beside 'him; he lifted a

hand. The chatter petered out, though someone called cheerfully,
"Nous attendons, Leon!"

Leon said, "You've all met my daughter-in-law this evening, but

not many of you have met my grandson. His name is Timothy, he's
not much of a Verender, but we're trying to remedy that." A soft
wave of laughter. "My daughter-in-law tells me it's going to take a
long time. We'll see." A pause. "My son married this young
woman without my consent, and I was so angry that I deliberately
forgot their existence. I didn't know her, I didn't want to know
her."

"Fi, donc!" came from several directions at once.

"I agree with you," Leon said. "But when she came here several
weeks ago it wasn't Catherine I wanted, only her son. And now,
my friends, the laugh is on me."

"Please," exclaimed Catherine softly, "You're getting maudlin!"

"Hear that?" Leon asked his audience. "That's the way she speaks
to me, and believe it or not that's the way I like to be spoken to, by
man or woman. No pretence, no buttering, no eye to the future -
just plain, honest words that mean exactly what they say. She's
hating every minute of this, but she's darned well got to listen, just
as you have to listen because you're my guests!" More laughter.
Leon let it fade right away before he went on, "I'm not a
sentimentalist; I don't have to tell you that. I like facts ... so I'll
stick to facts, now. Before Catherine came here I'd expected some
flibbertigibbet who had her eye on my possessions. Mind you, she
sent some snorting letters to my lawyer - he hasn't recovered from
them yet, have you, Henri?" A little man nearby squirmed and
smiled. "Anyway, I was ready for anything- she might try on, and I
told her so, within ten minutes of her arrival here."

His large hand was heavy on her naked Shoulder. She could have
ducked away and fled, but dimly she realised this public
laundering of old linen was something Leon had to do. Those faces
out there, the strained necks, the dummylike smiles in the
unfriendly light. The only way to get through it was to bend her
head and not listen too intently. If only he would get it over!

His other hand patted the shoulder nearest him. "There's not much
more I have to say - you can see that. She's here, I'm proud of her -
in fact I hope you'll forgive me for saying that she's the loveliest
woman here tonight." He didn't let the cheers grow. "I want this
evening to be an occasion she'll remember - her introduction to all
you people who are my friends and colleagues. And as a sort of
material memento of the occasion..."

It was then that Catherine felt the chill of apprehension grow into
icy conviction. His voice seemed to recede and but for his hold she
would have swayed. But by the time his hand did leave her
shoulder she was tense and expectant. She felt the pearls slip away
from her throat, the sudden cold of something taking their place
and being clasped at the back of her neck.

She lifted her head swiftly, her fingertips touched the diamonds
and sprang away from them.

"Oh, no!" she breathed. "Leon,.."

But he was ending, in even tones: "If I had a daughter of my own

I'd want her to be strongly feminine, gentle and devastatingly
honest - like Catherine." And then, almost chidingly, "They're
toasting you, Catherine. Bow nicely and sit down. You've had your
moment."

She turned blindly towards the chair someone had set for her, and
in the turning saw Lucille's face, a dead, smiling mask. She sank
down and somehow kept her head lifted, her hands in her lap. The
diamonds felt like a necklace of lead-shot; she didn't even know
what they looked like.
Leon took a glass from a waiter, tossed down the contents neat, in
one gulp. Talk and laughter grew from a murmur to its normal roar
and a loudspeaker relayed music from the record-player in the
patio. The party was back on its own legs, with an hour or two to
go. Catherine wondered how she would endure it. People kept
shaking her hand for some reason; Hugh and Yvette laughed and
she said she was lucky, and passed on. Then there was Philippe.

All he said was, "Congratulations. You have done well." And to

Leon: "I must say good night, my friend. I have to work early
tomorrow morning. It has been a magnificent evening."

Leon said, "I wanted a word with you, Philippe. Will you come as
soon as you've finished at the hospital in the morning?"

"Of course."

He was gone, out of the circle of light and along a path towards
where his car was parked privately, for a quick departure.

Afterwards, Catherine remembered little about those last couple of

hours of the party. There was more dancing, more eating, more
drinking with coffee available, and eventually the exodus. After
leaving the swimming pool she hadn't seen Lucille again, but
Antoine had brought her a message. Madame d'Esperez felt unwell
and had gone to bed. She begged that Madame Verender be good
enough to call in and see her on her way to her own room. A
request Catherine felt quite unable to grant. She felt almost
physically ill herself.

She stood with Leon to say good night and receive thanks, did the
polite thing by those who were remaining in the house and at last
said a distant good night to Leon. She had begun to mount the
staircase when his voice behind her said:
"Come back here, Catherine!"

Without even pausing, she shook her head and went on. At the top
of the staircase she unfastened the necklace with quivering fingers,
went into his room and, in the darkness, dropped the handful of
diamonds on to the top of his dressing chest. She came out, looked
into Timothy's room, then closed herself in her own bedroom.

Methodically, she undressed and got into pyjamas. She used

cleansing cream, bathed her face in cold water, slipped into bed
and put out the light.

And then she was alone with her thoughts. Lucille, so thoroughly
humiliated that she had had to creep away to her bed. The woman
was greedy, self-assured, vain and dishonest, and perhaps she
deserved that terrible snub of Leon's at the pool. "The loveliest
woman here tonight..." Catherine's flesh crept. It had been so ... so
rehearsed. He'd known exactly what he was going to say.

But Lucille ... and the diamonds which were to have been hers.
He'd meant them for her all right, but somehow he must have
discovered something that had roused him to a fury of contempt,
and he'd taken it out on Lucille. Perhaps Michael had been unwise
enough to query those accounts. It didn't matter how Leon had
found out. The fact was that he knew.

The way he'd lingered on the word "honest." The careful

enunciation of "No pretence, no buttering, no eye to the future...."
The meanness of the whole carefully prepared scene. It was
incredible, and heartbreaking.

Heartbreaking, because in order to shake Lucille to the depths he

had used Catherine. And that was something Catherine felt she
couldn't forgive. To use her, spout flowery phrases he didn't mean,
hang his beastly riches round her neck. And she had been flattering
herself that he was beginning to like her a little for herself.

Leon didn't like anyone. He had wanted Lucille for her looks and
the cachet of possessing such a woman, but in the background
there must always have been a cynical knowledge that she would
marry him for his money. He didn't realise that Lucille was all he
deserved.

Catherine turned in her bed. She couldn't forget the look in

Lucille's face, the utter hollow deadness of it; as if the woman had
been extinguished and only the shell was left. No diamonds for
Lucille ,., no cruise. Debts, and perhaps that man she was friendly
with at the hotel.

She ought to have gone to Lucille's room, as she had asked. It

would have been painful and might have made matters worse, but
the additional snub was heaping just a little too much upon the
dark glossy head. Catherine switched on the light, saw that it was
twenty minutes past three, and snapped the light off again. Lucille
wouldn't expect her now, and perhaps by morning

Catherine pressed her face into her pillow. Her lips moved,
"Philippe," she whispered. "Philippe!"
CHAPTER TEN

THE house was late stirring next morning. At nine, coffee and
croissants were served in the bedrooms, and half an hour later two
or three of the men ventured downstairs, looking as though
convinced the floors were hinged. The happiest member of the
household was Timothy, who found much interest in the fact that
the Villa Chaussy suddenly held a large number of odd-looking
inmates, most of whom jumped alarmingly and held their heads
when he ran along a passage indoors or rang his bicycle bell in the
garden.

Catherine had never felt so slack in her life, nor so hopeless. She
was relieved to see that the hall was back to normal, the doors of
the large salon closed and the half-moon table firmly against them
with an urn of flowers to add weight to its authority. The servants
had also cleaned up the patio and old Brulard's assistants were
doing their best with the lawns. Leon, she guessed, would remain
upstairs till lunch-time, when all traces of last night's function were
likely to have been obliterated. He would have lunch with the
guests, and they would gradually thin out, towards Monte Carlo,
Cannes and elsewhere.

She wondered what was expected of her. Not much, before mid-
morning refreshment, surely. She would have liked to bathe in the
sea, but from the beach one always returned sandy and ruffled, and
these people would probably take untidiness in a hostess as an
insult. In any case, bathing was too much trouble. For the present,
she would sit in the shade and watch Timothy cutting figure eights
round the magnolias. He handled the little bike as if it were part of
him.

Philippe arrived, bowed to her across the patio and went into the
house. She felt the familiar ache, and ignored it. She ought to go
for a walk, or set herself to the task of enlivening the morning for
the old Baron and his svelte Baron- ness, who were sitting mutely
under the tree over there. But it was much effort to move.

Then, without haste, Lucille came out of the house. Strangely, she
looked no different from usual as she called, in French, "Brulard,
ask the chauffeur to bring a car to the drive!" The old man
delegated the task to an underling. A maid had come out, carrying
Lucille's case, and she was told to wait there till the car arrived,
and see that the case was securely placed in the luggage
compartment.

"I have to say goodbye to my friends," Lucille said, and she turned
towards the garden at a leisurely pace.

Catherine stood up as though to join her, but Lucille hardly

paused, though she said quietly, "You were right to disregard my
request last night. We have nothing to say to each other."

"Lucille..."

But the other had passed on, and Catherine hadn't the energy or the
inclination to pursue her. The thing was done, and Lucille, perhaps
after a night of torment, was. haughtily resigned.

The other woman crossed the grass to speak to the Baroness, there
was a small ceremonial leave-taking and then Lucille looked
about, saw someone else and angled towards them, disappearing
down one of the paths. Catherine sat down again and closed her
eyes. She was deathly tired of all these people who reminded her
of the party, but she supposed she ought to wait here and make
some show of waving Lucille away from the premises. It was
Leon's job, but he was taking good care to stay clear of it. Some
time he would ask whether Madame d'Esperez had left, and an
affirmative reply would be the signal for him to think about
coming down to join his house guests.

Catherine didn't want to face him; she didn't want to face anyone.
She hardly even wondered what they were talking about up in the
bedroom, Leon and Philippe. They had found things to talk about
long before she had known either of them. It was a strange
friendship, but a solid one. Those two - so different, yet how could
they hurt. No use thinking about them, though .-,, not yet.

It was going to be very hot today. Hardly any breeze and a sun that
beat down relentlessly through a thin haze. Even in the shade the
air was narcotic and devitalising. It would be cooler on the sea, but
could she face the cruise now? The very thought of it made her
shiver; yet Timothy, against all her expectations, was looking
forward to it. He'd met the little boy who was to be his companion,
and strangely, for both were only children, they had taken to each
other. For his sake, she might have to endure three weeks of party
spirit, of false gaiety and unavoidable propinquity with Leon and
his friends. At first it had been for Leon's sake; now it was for
Timothy's. It seemed a long, long time since she had done anything
just to please herself.

She heard the voice which could always quicken her pulses, and
opened her eyes. He was talking to an old man, talking soothingly
in his own tongue. Catherine caught a word here and there and
gathered that the old one was a little worried about a crick in his
back which seemed to have settled there for good. Catherine didn't
catch what Philippe said because his back was towards her, but she
saw a smile dawn upon the older man's features and the slow
nodding of his head. That bedside manner, she thought a little
bitterly; reassuring and friendly for the men, and for the women
cheering and charming, with a layer of ice between the cheer and
the charm.
She heard a distant scream; then another, not so distant. Suddenly,
several things happened at once. A gardener shouting and
gesticulating, Philippe sprinting towards the increasing noises and
the hurrying of guests after him. After a moment of paralysis
Catherine swiftly scanned the view. Timothy!

In one leap her heart had reached her throat and was pounding
there with choking force. She was running faster than she had ever
run before, thrusting people aside, almost knocking Lucille flat;
Lucille, she spared a split second to notice, was the only one
coming away from the scene. All the rest were hurrying towards
the swimming pool. They were streaming over the grass, urged on
by Brulard's cohort. And Brulard himself was shouting at her:

"C'est le petit fils, madame. La bicyclette!"

And there was the pool, pink and white blossoms agitating all over
its surface, and Philippe, lifting the child high with one arm and
striking out for the side, where a dozen hands were already
outstretched to seize his burden. She staggered sickeningly and ran
on, would have plunged straight into the water if they hadn't
caught her fast and held her back.

There was Timothy's small pale face, white and dead- looking, his
hair grotesquely plastered to his brow. She wrenched from
someone's grasp, slid down on to the marble and reached to
receive him. He was heavy and lifeless, and frantically she beat off
hands that tried to take him. But she relinquished him to Philippe,
and hazily she heard him say:

"Let her lie still. I have to work on the child. You can help, Leon,
by sending your guests back to the house."

She couldn't watch. Flat on her face, tight fists pressing against her
temples, she tried not even to listen. Her mind was a chaos of
incoherent prayers. And then she could bear it no longer, and
turned on her side.

Timothy's shirt had been stripped off and Philippe's hands were
working over the small honey-coloured bade. A tight muscle in his
jaw caused a faint hollow under his cheekbone and there was a
fanatical determination in the compression of his mouth, the
thinning of his nostrils. He turned the child on to his back and at
once began a light massage at the base of the ribs.

She watched the white unconscious face in an agony of

concentration; it must change. It must. A trickle of water came
from the bluish lips, and at once Philippe pulled the child into a
sitting position and forced his mouth open. More water, then a
tremendous gulp and a hoarse little yell that rippled at every nerve
in Catherine's body.

She tried to sit up, but a hand pressed her back and Philippe said,
almost lightly, "His lungs sound stronger for the wash, no? He will
be all right now. The maid can take care of him."

But it was Leon who carried the little boy to the house. Leon,
gaunt and grey and wordless, with Louise bobbing at his side and
holding on to Timothy's feet as if no part of him must be left
unsupported.

Catherine did not at once struggle to rise; she was too spent. She
hadn't wept, but now her eyes filled as she looked at Philippe. He
wasn't Philippe as she knew him; he was white and tousled, his
eyes very dark as he leaned over her. With an almost unconscious
movement he had put a hand to his top pocket for his
handkerchief, but he drew it back with a small shrug. He had
thrown off his jacket and the shirt was pasted, half dry, to his
body.
So, with a fingertip, he wiped a tear from under each of her eyes.
Then his hand slipped under her head and he bent and kissed her,
gently, on the mouth.

"You have had a great shock," he said, "and you must rest in your
room. My case is in my car -1 will leave a sedative for the child,
but for you, I think, the English remedy will be sufficient. Strong
sweet tea."

He had pulled on his shoes, pushed his arms into his jacket, and
was helping her to her feet. A combination of heaven and hell, she
thought dazedly as she moved with him. Philippe's arm about her,
but it wouldn't be there if Timothy hadn't almost drowned. And the
kiss? Did he know he had kissed her? Or had he felt he was kissing
a terrified child?

She said thinly, "If you hadn't been there..."

"Someone else would have saved him; the garden was full of
people."

"The gardeners can't swim, and the guests are older."

"You might have saved him yourself."

"But you were on the spot to treat him. If you hadn't been"

"You are torturing yourself uselessly. When he has slept there will
be nothing wrong with the child. The pool must be emptied,
cleaned and refilled, the bicycle dried and polished. He must have
the same bicycle, and find it where it is usually kept. I will tell
Brulard."

"Timothy will be more frightened of swimming than ever," she

said heavily.
"If it seems so we shall persuade him that falling into the pool on
his bicycle could have been great fun if he had been able to swim.
I assure you that no permanent harm has been done. These things
can be handled."

They had reached the patio where several guests were talking
concernedly in a group. A man came forward.

"May I help, Philippe?"

"Call a maid, my friend. Madame must go to her room. Myself,"

with a smile as he looked down at his trousers, "I must go home
quickly and change. Already patients are collecting at my
consulting room- Perhaps you will also find the butler and tell him
to Come to my car?" The man moved away, and Philippe said
quietly to Catherine, "The strong sweet tea, tu te rappelles? I will
call later. You are not to worry - just rest. So?"

She nodded weakly. "Thank you, Philippe. Thank you ... with all
my heart."

Momentarily, his fingers tightened about her arm. Then he turned

to a maid who had appeared. "The child is in bed? Bien! Go with
Madame to her room. Antoine will bring a sedative for the child."

Catherine didn't need the maid's help. She felt peculiar, but the
weakness had passed. She told the maid she would like some tea
and went upstairs alone, to Timothy's room.

Dried and lying between white sheets, he looked entirely normal,

except that it was mid-morning and his eyes were closed. She bent
near to him and he looked at her, without speaking. She touched
her lips to his cheek and he sighed.
"I was a clot, wasn't I?" he said in his little boy's treble. "Tante
Lucille told me,.." He gave another sigh. "I'm tired."

Antoine came behind Catherine. "Monsieur le Docteur sent these

tablets, madame. Only one to be given; he said, but another in two
hours if there is restlessness."

She took a tablet and the glass from him. And it was only then that
she became aware that Leon had been standing at the foot of the
bed all the time. He came to the other side of the bed, leaned over
and lifted Timothy into a sitting position, so that Catherine could
pop the tablet into the small mouth and place the glass to
Timothy's lips. Then he lowered the small body and pulled the
sheet back into position.

Catherine straightened and looked at him across the bed. He was

grim-faced and seemed older. She saw his lips part as he took a
deep breath, and it occurred to her suddenly, that it was probably
the first unhampered breath he had drawn since hastening down to
the pool.

"He won't need more than the one tablet," she said. "We'd better
leave him alone now."

Louise, who had been hovering, whispered urgently, "I will come
in every ten minutes, madame. Monsieur le Docteur ..."

"Yes, I know. I'll be in my room. Call me if he stirs."

It was Leon who opened the door of Catherine's room. He entered

with her, said almost offhandedly:

"That dress is wet - you'd better get it off. I'll wait for you through
here."
He went through the archway into the adjoining sitting- room and
took a chair that faced the balcony. Catherine slipped out of the
dress and put on a blue silk wrap. A maid brought tea.

"A tray for two, madame," she said. "Monsieur le Docteur said that
Monsieur Verender also needed a stimulant, and I must tell him to
drink tea here with you. They were his words, madame."

"Yes, I'm sure they were. Monsieur is in my sitting-room. Thank

you, Marie."

Catherine carried the tray through herself and set it down on a low
table close to Leon's chair. He was pulling up a chair for her, on
the other side of the table but also facing the trees and blue sky.

"Philippe's prescription," she said, for something to say, "Strong

sweet tea for two."

"I don't need treatment for shock," he said. "Not now. But I'll have
a cup with lemon." He was silent while she poured, took his cup
and set it down. "You and I have got to have a talk."

"Can't it wait? I don't feel up to fighting."

"Nor do I. But there are things we have to say, just once, I believe
in getting past the unpleasant things as soon as one can. What do
you suppose happened out there this morning?"

"I really don't know. Timothy never goes near the edge of the pool
- he's too scared. All he does down there is to cycle near the curved
edges of the marble, near the grass - the curves are no nearer than
fifteen feet to the edge of the pool itself. But he never does even
that unless I'm there. I've told him he must never go near the pool
alone, but perhaps this morning he felt there were lots of people
about, and that somehow made it safe."
Leon shook his head. "No, that wasn't it. You heard him mention
Lucille."

"Oh, yes, Lucille." A chill ran along Catherine's spine. "I met her
as I ran down to the pool. She was ,., coming away, I believe I
thought it peculiar - if I thought at all." She drank tea in quick sips.
"Did ... did Lucille have something to do with it?"

He pushed a hand across his eyes. "They met on a path that leads
to the pool. Lucille talked to him for a moment, and then they went
together down towards the pool. They were quite close to it when
She gave the bicycle a shove. She didn't touch the boy, only the
back of the saddle. He bounced over the grass, wobbling
alarmingly - that was probably what made him forget to jam on the
brakes until the last moment, when it was too late."

Her hands were so unsteady that she had to put down the cup.
"How do you know all this?"

"I saw it," he said simply. "From my balcony I have a panoramic

view of the grounds. No one else," with a curious inflection in his
voice, "has any clear idea of what happened, but I know every
detail. And Lucille knows I know. After she'd pushed the bike she
looked round quickly at the house and saw me there, on the
balcony."

Catherine was ashen. "I can't believe it. She might have ...killed
him."

He shook his head tiredly. "I suppose she's capable of it, but she
did know that the boy's shriek would draw attention and that
Philippe was here. At best, she hoped to hurt me badly - and you,
of course. If it hadn't been for the boy you wouldn't have come
here. As a matter of fact, it's a logical sort of sequel to what
happened last night - to anyone who knows Lucille."
"You mean... the necklace?"

"Yes, the necklace." He leaned an elbow on his knee and stared out
at the shining emerald frond of a palm. "Who told you I was
having a necklace made - Dean?"

"Yes. Don't blame him, though. We were talking..."

"I don't blame him. He probably thought he was putting you on

guard." Leon shrugged. "You'd better have the whole works. There
was a time when I thought I might marry Lucille. I needed
something more human in my way of life, and at that time I knew
nothing of Tim. Well, when I did hear of the boy's existence the
marriage idea began to fall away, but Lucille was a good
companion, and I enjoyed taking her to the races and having her as
my partner on the yacht and elsewhere. And I'll admit I liked her a
good deal."

A feeling Catherine had thought she would never know in

connection with Leon seemed to fill her throat. Compassion. She
said, "The trouble with women like Lucille is that they think being
beautiful is enough; they think they don't need to have scruples or
affection."

"Maybe you're right. I won't go into too many details, but I found
out she'd been getting a commission on orders I'd placed with a
certain large store in Nice. She'd recommended this store to me
and apparently had the arrangement with the manager. I was
shaken, I can tell you, and immediately made enquiries about other
things that looked suspicious. Perhaps you can imagine how I felt
when I discovered she was actually living on credit at her hotel,
because it was common knowledge among the staff there that she
was going to marry me."

"Why didn't you tax her with it?"

His eyes narrowed, and a vestige of the fierce look came back into
them. "I'm a business man, and that was the first time anyone, man
or woman, had put anything of the kind over on me. I let it go on
for a while, without her suspecting that I knew about it, but finally
it made me so mad that I decided to deal with it in the way I knew
would hurt her most. It had to be done, so I did it."

Catherine looked down at her hands, "So we arrive at the

necklace."

"Yes, we do." The belligerent note was back in his voice. "And
you needn't have slung it back at me, whatever you thought! I had
that thing specially made for you, and you're darned well going to
accept it. Make it an heirloom if you like - pass it on to your .,. oh,
what's the use of talking to a woman who has to have reasons for
everything? It's yours!"

"But you had it made for Lucille."

"That's where you're wrong. I had a big party in mind for you, and
the necklace as a gift. When I first spoke to the jeweller he
mentioned Madame d'Esperez, and I knew at once that anything I
bought would be the subject of a telephone conversation the
moment I'd left the shop. So I thought I'd get back at her a bit - let
them think the necklace was for Lucille, so that they could give her
the exciting news when my back was turned. Then she'd have a
shock in store. She deserved it, and she had it."

Catherine hated the subject, but she felt compelled to say, "Lucille
told me the necklace was for her - that you'd had her initials put on
the clasp."

"She did, did she? If you hadn't been in such a blazing hurry to get
rid of it last night you'd have seen that Lucille's initials are
missing. There's one word on that clasp - Catherine, in tiny script."
"Then how did she...?"

"I kicked up a row at the jewellers - told them that my business

with them was leaking and said very pointedly that if they had any
further enquiries about the necklace they were to say that initials
had been engraved on the clasp, but no more." He grinned with a
trace of malice. "They're hoping you'll get after me for a solitaire
and a bracelet and what- have-you, so they weren't likely to spill
anything more to someone who was only a penniless hanger-on."

"The Verender money again."

"Don't turn up that delicate nose at my money. If I hadn't had it

you wouldn't be here." He laughed, without changing his
expression. "And if you hadn't married my son some other creature
would have. I might have got a grandson ... but he wouldn't have
been Tim. And she wouldn't have been you. I've not done too
badly, on the whole."

"Thanks."

"Though, mind you, if that boy had been able to swim we wouldn't
all have been on the point of collapse an hour ago. That's one thing
I'm going to insist on right away - swimming lessons every day till
he's as slick in the water as he is on the bike. And another thing.,."

"Not now, please!"

This time his smile was unmistakable, but he kept his eyes
narrowed under the thick brows. "You thought I'd gone soft, didn't
you? You saw me panting and gibbering down there at the pool
and thought you'd got me where you want me at last! Well, you
haven't. I heard this morning that you're not at all keen to go on the
cruise. Never mind who told me. You needn't go. I'll take Tim and
the maid, Louise. He'll have a young companion."
"He's much too young himself to go off on a cruise like that
without me."

"That's What you think. We'll try it and see. We stop nearly every
day at some port or other, and if he wants you you can drive down
and come aboard. If you insist, I'll telephone you each day."

"I'm not making any snap decisions. I'm supposed to be resting."

"All right, I'll leave you." He stood up at once. "I'll be glad to get
rid of that bunch downstairs straight after lunch. I've forgotten
what it's like here when it's peaceful."

She said quickly, "I hate harking back, but you're not aiming to do
anything about Lucille, are you?"

"It's my guess she's already taken steps herself. Her next stop will
be a long way up the coast. She's best forgotten."

"I agree. Thank you for having tea with me, Leon."

"You lie down for a couple of hours. I'll tell them you're not fit to
go down for lunch.''

"You must be a very fit man yourself."

"I felt a bit groggy a while ago, but now I feel better than I've felt
for years." He was at the door when he added, "You know all that
guff I put over about you last night?"

"Yes?"

"I meant it," he said, and went out.

Catherine leaned back in her chair and half closed her eyes. She
felt near to tears again, and it was silly. This was just what she
wanted; Leon a little, or maybe more than a little fond of herself
and Timothy, and to know that he wasn't going after revenge
against Lucille. She understood him better, and there was one
thing she now knew very clearly. In his own way he loved
Timothy; he'd let the child take risks, but only while he was
watched. In time Timothy would fill Leon's life, but in a good way,
a growing way.

Feeling empty and tremulous, she let her head slip right back, and
she dozed. She was half aware of the maid who took away the tray,
half aware of the brilliant noonday sun, and of its sliding towards
the west.

She roused herself at last, saw that it was nearly one and hurried
into Timothy's room. Pink-cheeked, his hair rough and curly on the
pillow, he was blandly asleep. Louise sat in the balcony, sewing,
and birds were trilling outside and winging across the
Mediterranean blue of the sky.

Catherine returned to her own room, washed and found a dress.

She was unlooping the girdle of her wrap when there came a
knock at the door and Philippe came in. She pulled the girdle tight
again and, unconsciously, she bound the sash of silk over her hand.

"Ah, you are up," he said, quite smoothly. "I have just been in to
see the child."

"So have I." Her voice sounded strained, "He's all right, isn't he?"

"Fine. We will waken him at about four, but keep him in bed until
tomorrow." He appraised her, "You look better. Did you sleep?"

"A little."
He pushed his hands into his pockets and walked to the window, "I
believe you spoke with Leon."

"Yes, we did have a talk."

"About last night - the scene he arranged at the pool?"

"Partly."

"It was what he and I spoke of this morning. He said it had made
him ,., what he called edgy, for several days, but he was
determined on it. He had mentioned it to no one, and felt he must
now deal with Lucille frankly. He had intended to see her before
she left this morning."

"He didn't tell me that, but I'm glad."

There was a short silence, and now the birds beyond the window
seemed to mock. He was still half turned towards the window
when he said, "Yvette was most concerned about you - she wished
to come here with me. I dissuaded her, and she sent you her love
and says she hopes to see you soon."

"Thank you."

He turned to face her across the room. With the strong light behind
him his expression was not too clear, but what She saw of it
caused a swift, stabbing sensation at her heart, a choking fullness
in her throat. She made a tiny, almost imperceptible gesture, but it
was enough.

He crossed to her in a couple of strides and took her into his arms.
For perhaps ten seconds she kept her hands locked inside the girdle
of her wrap, hardly daring to breathe or think. Then she freed her
fingers and curved her arms about his neck. Their mouths found
each other and clung with hungry intensity, till at last his lips
moved to her cheek and down to the curve of her neck.

"Dieu, I have wanted this," he said indistinctly. "Je t'aime, ma mie.

I love you so much that I am not myself any more. I am half of
you. I adore your lips and hair and eyes, your courage and
stubbornness, your .., womanliness. And you love me -1 can feel
it. But you must say it!"

"I do love you, Philippe ... terribly. I've felt dreadful since you
kissed me this morning."

"Dreadful! But why? It was all I could do. We were in no

condition, either of us, for declaration!"

"I know," in quivering tones, "but I was afraid you were only
comforting me. I so much wanted to believe it was more than that.
Philippe, I wish you'd told me before. I've needed it, and you were
so cold. And there was Marcelle."

"Marcelle!" He relaxed his hold and said sternly, "You caused me

trouble there! It was you who told Leon he must also invite
Marcelle when I came here. Naturally, Marcelle has imagined
much that is not true. It was because of Marcelle that I decided to
take a holiday soon. I could not have her in Pontrieux much
longer."

"But you were friendly with her before I came."

"Many things happened before you came, my sweetest, dearest

Catherine. But it is the things which have happened since that
concern me most; before then, I was only a doctor!"

"And what are you now?"

His smile glittered, "I have shown you already, just a little. But tell
me why the insistence that Marcelle should be invited here to the
villa with me? Were you afraid for yourself? Could you see that
Monsieur le Docteur had at last found the woman he wanted?"

"Yvette and I both thought.-.."

"Yvette! I think we shall have to marry her to your cousin and send
her away with him to Hong Kong; it would be good medicine for
them both. Yvette is improved, but a nuisance!"

"Well, I did feel that Marcelle was more right for you than I. She's
French."

"You will soon be French!"

Catherine hesitated, lowered her head. "Marcelle hasn't been

married before," she said quietly.

For an endless minute she wished she could recall those words.
His hand dropped from her shoulder and he moved slightly away.
A breeze lifted the curtain and sent a breath of garden perfume into
the room.

He spoke deliberately. "That was something I found insupportable

- your marriage. I knew almost as soon as we met that I was in
love with you, but I also knew that I could not live with another,,."
he threw out his hands. "Jealousy is a neurosis and I am not a
neurotic. But I had some very bad times. You remember that night
- the boy in the hut? For me, it was a sort of crisis. After that, I
accepted the fact that whatever had happened to you before I knew
you had created the woman I loved. I was not happy about it,
though, because I felt there was some part of you I would never
know."
Through dry lips she said, "I was never in love before as I am with
you, Philippe. There's there's nothing in the least girlish about
what I feel now. It's so big, it's frightening. I can't prove that my
emotions now are different from..."

"But you have proved it, ma cherie. Do you remember lying in a

little heap on the landing in my house?"

"Don't! You often reminded me of that."

"I will remind you again! That was when I knew that you had
learned only a trifle about love between a man and a woman; when
I knew that no one else could give you what I can give, because no
one else had ever loved you so much."

"I'm very glad," she said shakily, "You did resent Timothy a bit."

"I could never resent a child, and I am fond of Timothy for

himself," he said. "I resented only what seemed to me at first like a
morbid absorption in him. Besides, I am somewhat of Leon's
opinion where the education of children is concerned. They should
grow up like young trees, at the mercy of the elements."

"It seems I'm going to have trouble with you too. But you don't
know how much I'm looking forward to it."

He drew her close again. "We must marry at once - as soon as it

can possibly be arranged. I want you to stay with us at my house
while Leon and the child are cruising. I told him this morning that
you were not anxious to go."

"Didn't he think it strange?"

"Perhaps, but he said little." His smile teased as he added, "I think
Leon will approve of this marriage; he will not want to lose you
now, and I am sure he will enjoy being grandfather a second time.
You must be prepared for that!"

A little pink, she said, "I want it, Philippe, more than anything in
the world."

A vibrancy in his low tones, he said, "And I, my dear one."

The final words were said close to her hair, and it was a very long
time before habit dragged him back to look at his watch.

"Ciel! It is almost two, and I am expected below for lunch. Those

guests were already in the dining-room and will have finished." He
firmly put her away from him and moved towards the door. "Into a
dress and downstairs, please," he commanded. "We have a most
important announcement to make! I will wait for you in the
corridor."

For a few seconds after he had gone she stood staring at the door
in ecstatic surprise. Yet the action was like Philippe. ... Just like
him. She slipped into a blue and white figured dress, made up her
face and ran a comb over her hair. Then, feeling as though the
whole world had been created anew just for the two of them, she
joined Philippe.