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“Not until I’ve had my drink,” Dick insisted obstinately. “Ah, here it is!”

“Now
—at once!
” Lucy said firmly, completely beyond caring now what result her insistence might have on him.

“Oh, very well!” He stood up, fumbled in his pocket and slapped down the few coins he drew from it on to the table. “Pay for it out of that—every sou I’ve got—and all I shall have until I eat humble pie and get back into Gwenda’s good books! Pretty grim for. a man to be next door to a beggar when his wife is absolutely rolling in it, isn’t it?”

He laughed bitterly, leaving Lucy dismayed and sick at heart.

So that was Dick! Disloyal to her, even more horribly disloyal
to
his wife.

“Mam’selle is feeling unwell?” the waiter asked diffidently.

“Yes—no—I’m all right,” Lucy said hurriedly. “But please take the drinks away—and the money as well.”

“But mam’selle truly looks a little faint. Perhaps it would be a good thing to drink a little?” the man suggested.

“No,” Lucy said sharply. Not for anything would she accept anything from Dick ever again—even so small a thing as a fruit cordial. “Take them both away, please, at once.”

With a shrug the man complied. He had done his best, but these English were not to be understood! To waste two good drinks—and also to pay for them— incredible!

Lucy sat very still. She wished she could forget all about Dick and the things he had said, but it wasn’t possible. How could it be when in a few brief moments she had been forced to realise that the Dick she had loved had never really existed? If only he hadn’t said those things about Gwenda! And if only Gwenda were not so rich! It had hurt terribly to believe that Dick’s love for herself had been such a little thing that he could forget all about it and fall really in love with another girl, but now she knew that there was something much worse than that—or could be. Why had Dick married Gwenda? For love—or for her money? Despite the heat of the day Lucy shivered.

She had remembered that Owen had said Dick would always take the line of least resistance—but he had said something else as well:
“Particularly if it pays him to.”

And everything Dick had said confirmed the truth of that—his insistence that he had made a terrible mistake—his resentment that he was not able to spend his wife's money as freely as he wished—

“Sorry I've been so long.”

Owen was back. Lucy stood up quickly, thankful that he had stayed away so long, even more thankful that now she could leave this horrible place.

“Le Marquand simply wouldn't stop talking—” Owen went on.

“It didn't matter,” Lucy said dully. “There was— plenty to look at.”

Owen looked at her intently, but though she appeared to be a totally different girl from the one he had left not really so very long ago, he did not comment on the fact.

“Would you like another drink?” he asked. “Or shall we go straight back?”

“Oh, straight back,” Lucy said quickly. And then, realising that it must seem to him she was acting in a peculiar way, she added: “I've got rather a headache—” .

“Have you?” he said sympathetically, slipping his arm through hers. “Too much sunshine, perhaps. Well, come along. We'll be home in next to no time and then you can have a rest in a shaded room.”

It was a very silent journey back to the Villa des Fleurs. The purring of the car and the breeze which their own movement produced lulled Lucy into a sort of stupor. Owen, presumably, was silent out of consideration for her far from fictitious headache. But it was he who first broke the silence.

“Lucy, if your head is better by the evening, will you come with me to the Opera House? There’s an internationally famous ballet company visiting Monaco—they’re doing Swan Lake tonight.”

Lucy, only vaguely aware that he had spoken at all, looked at him dully.

“What did you say?” she asked.

Owen repeated his request, and this time Lucy sat bolt upright.

“I—I—” she began, and to her horror, burst into tears.

Immediately Owen stopped the car at the side of the road. For a moment his fingers fiddled with the rim of the steering wheel. Then, very gently, he asked:

“Would you like to tell me?”

“There—isn’t very much to tell,” Lucy said, her head turned away from him, so that he could not see her tearstained face. “Just that—when you were with Monsieur Le Marquand—Dick suddenly—turned up.”

“I know,” Owen said shortly. “I saw him. Actually, I wasn’t so very long with Le Marquand, but just as I was coming out to rejoin you, I saw Corbett was with you—”

“Oh,” Lucy exclaimed anxiously. “You—you didn’t think that—that I knew he was here? That I had arranged To see him?”

“Not for a moment,” Owen declared emphatically. “As a matter of fact, I was on the point of coming over with the express intention of kicking him into the middle of next week when I realised that you were doing just that—and far more efficiently than I could possibly have done!”

“I hope that I never see him again,” Lucy said in a strangled voice. “It was—horrible. You see, I realised that all you had said about him was true—”

“Go on,” Owen said quietly.

“I don’t think I ever made excuses for Dick,” Lucy obeyed, staring straight ahead. “But I did realise that people can quite genuinely change—even at the last moment.”

“You mean, you believed that he was at least honest about having had a change of heart?”

“Yes,” Lucy whispered. “That—hurt, but it wasn't as bad as—” she shook her head, unable to finish.

“Money?” Owen asked curtly.

Lucy did not answer, but her silence told Owen all he wanted to know.

“And he told
you
that?” he exclaimed. “The young swine! I wish I’d interfered—”
¹

“No,” Lucy said painfully. “It’s just as well that I should know not only that, but that he had such a poor opinion of me as to imagine that I would be gratified because—already—his marriage isn’t the—the success he had thought it would be.”

And that Owen found quite easy to interpret. Evidently young Corbett had met—and married—his match! The Kelsall girl might be genuinely in love with him, but she had no illusions about him. So she was keeping a tight hold on the moneybags—and serve him right! There could hardly be a more fitting punishment for such a man. And if Lucy, bless her, wasn’t paltry enough to find pleasure in that state of affairs, he, Owen, was frankly delighted—and for more reasons than one. But he had no intention of telling Lucy that.

Instead, he dropped a hand lightly over Lucy’s clasped ones.

“Lucy, would you say that you’re—cured?”

Imperceptive of the almost diffident way in which he spoke, Lucy nodded.

“Yes, quite cured,” she said sadly. “But—how I wish it hadn’t been this way. It—it isn’t pleasant to discover that someone—you thought the world of just couldn’t ever really have existed—” her voice trailed away, and Owen’s grip on her hands tightened.

“No, it isn’t,” he agreed. “And it also means that you have now got to face up to something new—lack of faith in your own judgment, and the fear that no one is trustworthy. What are you going to do about that, Lucy?”

Lucy gave him a crooked smile.

“It always seems to be your job to make me face up to my problems, doesn’t it?” she remarked. “You must get rather tired of it!”

“Perhaps I do,” he admitted. “But then, you see, it happens that I’m very much—” He paused briefly and then continued, “am very much of the opinion that you're someone who is well worth helping. And if it lies in my power to do that—but you haven't answered my question. What are you going to do?”

“Work as hard as I possibly can, I suppose,” Lucy said after a moment's thought. “And try to get some sense of proportion. It sounds rather dreary, doesn’t it?”

“So dreary that I think you might add
—and have as good a time as possible ”
Owen suggested cheerfully. “And that brings me back to what I said at the beginning of this conversation—will you come to the ballet with me tonight? Le Marquand has asked us to share his box, and though I can’t promise you that royalty will be present, it is a gala performance.”

“Us?” Lucy queried in surprise.

“Certainly—
us,”
Owen confirmed. “He referred to you as my charming little friend, and so that there should be no mistake who he meant, he buttoned up his fingers, snatched a kiss from his lips and dispatched it in your direction. Like this!”

His exaggerated imitation of Monsieur le Marquand's gesture amused Lucy sufficiently to make her laugh, but she still had a question to ask.

“But it will mean that "you have to wear formal evening clothes. Won't you dislike that, on holiday?”

“Bless your kind little heart!” Owen sounded really touched by her thoughtfulness. “Well, I admit that the thought of a stiff collar isn’t too pleasant, but it will be worth it—particularly if you haven’t seen Swan Lake before?”

“No, I haven’t,” Lucy told him.

“Good! It’s my favourite, and to share it with someone who has never seen it will be as satisfying as giving candy to a child! And now we’d better make for home. It’s getting late and we’ve still a longish way to go.”

And then, for the first time, Lucy realised that they were not on the coast road but another one, still running roughly parallel with the sea but so high above it that the sea had become a tranquil turquoise plain, shimmering in the sunshine, and trees and houses were dolls’ house size.

“Where are we?” Lucy exclaimed.

“On the Grande Corniche—Napoleon’s road, and before that, a Roman road. It’s a longer way back, but I thought you might be glad of a bit of extra time— and it’s cooler up here,” Owen explained.

Lucy found it suddenly impossible to speak, but she laid her hand momentarily on his bare forearm, and as they started off again, Owen began to whistle an exceptionally cheerful little tune.

* * *

As Lucy got ready for the evening’s outing she was aware of a growing sense of excitement which was considerably enhanced by the knowledge that Owen would have no need to feel ashamed of her appearance.

She had only worn her dress once before, and that had been during the previous year when she had been bridesmaid at a cousin’s wedding. The soft, supple material was the delicate lavender-blue of a delphinium and it suited Lucy’s fair colouring to perfection. With it went long silver gloves and shoes. At the wedding she had also worn a short-sleeved bolero of the same material as the dress. Now she regarded this doubtfully.

She was quite sure that when she reached the Opera House a strapless evening dress would be entirely suitable, but would it perhaps be a good thing to wear the little bolero going and returning? Surely one ought to have a cape or a stole or something? She decided to ask Mrs. Mayberry and went in search of her.

Mrs. Mayberry was reading, but she instantly laid her book down and gave a little exclamation of pleasure.

“My dear, how absolutely charming—and how absolutely
you!
But you look worried. Is anything wrong— and can I help?”

Lucy explained her problem, and Mrs. Mayberry agreed that yes, most women probably would wear something over their shoulders on arriving and that the little bolero would be perfect.

“Though I can lend you a light-weight fur stole if you like,” she offered.

“Thank you very much, but if you don't mind, I'd rather not borrow,” Lucy said diffidently. “Particularly something valuable, so if you're quite sure it will do, I'll wear this.”

Before Mrs. Mayberry could answer, Owen came into the room, minus his coat and with a white tie in his hand.

“I say, Aunt Louise—” he began, and stopped short, his eyes on Lucy. For a moment he said nothing, and Lucy felt her colour rising. Then, slipping his hand under hers, he raised it to his lips and gently kissed it. “You look quite lovely, Lucy. I shall be the envy of all the other men there! And now,” his' voice became abruptly matter-of-fact, “about this tie. I’ve already ruined two. Do you think you could possibly tie it for me, Aunt Louise?”

“My dear, I’ll try, if you like,” Mrs. Mayberry said doubtfully. “But I don’t feel at all confident about the result. Do you know anything about tying this sort of tie, Lucy?”

“I—I usually tie Father’s,” Lucy answered. “I’ll try, if you like, Mr. Vaughan.”

But somehow, performing this little service for Owen was very different from doing the same thing for her father. Owen stood as still as a rock, yet she was supremely conscious of his nearness, of the warmth of his breath on her hair, and despite all her efforts to control them, her fingers would tremble. None the less, she produced a very creditable result, and Owen professed himself as being perfectly satisfied. Then he went off to put on his coat and returned a moment or two later carrying a spray of flowers in his hand.

“A reward for services rendered,” he remarked. “If you will accept it?”

His offering was the most exquisite spray of orchids that Lucy had ever seen. Mounted on a background of delicate fern, each tiny pink flower was a jewel in its own right. Lucy exclaimed with delight.

“How very, very lovely!” she said warmly. “And— and—” with sudden, almost childlike glee, “how marvellous to be going to see Swan Lake
and
wear orchids for the first time on the same evening! Thank you more than I can possibly say, Mr. Vaughan!”

Smiling as if he found her thanks completely adequate, Owen pointed out that fixed to the back of the spray was a silver clip which would fix over the edge of her dress, holding it firmly without marking it.

“I’ll show you,” he offered, and with quick, deft fingers slipped the flowers in position. “How’s that, Aunt Louise?” he asked, stepping back to observe the result.

“Quite perfect,” Mrs. Mayberry approved. “I admire your choice wholeheartedly, Owen!”

“I’m glad of that,” he remarked, and though he spoke in a perfectly ordinary voice, Lucy had the feeling that in some way they had exchanged a message having a deeper meaning than the ostensible one, but what it was, she had no idea. Not that she worried about it. Whatever it was, there was no unkindness in it.