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Owen had arranged for a chauffeur to drive the car so that he would not have to concern himself with parking it. It was a short but magic drive to the Opera House. It was not yet dark, but already there was a velvety quality about the sky and the sea had taken on a darker, richer blue. Street lamps glowed like strings of diamonds and fairy lamps glinted like lesser jewels.

“It’s like fairyland,” Lucy breathed.

Owen could have told her that it was a fairyland backed by sound business sense which knew the value of glamour to the last sou, but he felt no wish to destroy her illusions. Rather, he himself saw it all with her eyes, and smiled as he recalled his remark that even wearing a stiff collar would be well worth while. How right he had been!

And if she felt she had driven through fairyland, then Lucy found the Opera House the fairy palace itself. To her, all the men appeared handsome—though none so handsome as her own escort, she thought complacently. And all the women were beautiful. Certainly all their gowns were, and though most of them wore wonderful jewellery, even tiaras in some cases, Lucy did not feel the least shadow of envy.
She
was wearing orchids for the first time.

They were conducted to Monsieur le Marquand’s box where he received them, paying Lucy a flattering compliment before introducing his wife, who exclaimed at Lucy's complexion.

“The perfect English rose type,” she announced. “Or perhaps I may be allowed to say
American,
since our princess has the same colouring.”

That was a compliment which completely took Lucy’s breath away, and she could only stammer a few words of thanks. Then the le Marquands and Owen began to talk of matters about which she knew nothing and she was free to look about her and take in the magnificence of the scene. The seats and boxes were now almost all occupied, and massed together the effect of glittering jewels and dresses of all colours of the rainbow were breathtaking. And as if that were not enough, exquisitely arranged flowers were massed everywhere, their perfume filling the air with almost intoxicating sweetness. Though, as Owen had warned her would be the case, no royal personages were present, Lucy was breathless with excitement and anticipation.

Monsieur le Marquand, seeing her rapt expression, broke off his conversation with Owen to point out various celebrities, speaking of them in a friendly, casual way which made it clear that he, too, was one of them. Surreptitiously Lucy pinched herself to make sure that she was awake. It simply couldn’t be that ordinary Lucy Darvill was playing her part in such a glamorous scene!

Then the orchestra filed into their places and there was a little anticipatory hush in the babble of conversation which had been rippling over the audience. Instruments were tuned and tested—a sound fascinating in itself. A brief silence, then the lights dimmed and the orchestra began to play the captivating overture to Swan Lake. And finally the curtain rose—

Lucy lost all sense of time. The music was familiar to her, but she had never seen the ballet performed before. In fact, her only knowledge of ballet at all was what she had seen on television, and delightful though that had been, there could be no comparison with this “live” performance. Now and again a little sigh passed her lips, and once or twice she half raised her hand to call Owen’s attention to some particular delight. On one of these occasions he took her hand gently in his, but Lucy was too enthralled to notice, and as gently, he let it go.

At last it was all over. The lights came up and slowly the auditorium emptied.

The le Marquands suggested waiting a few moments until the crowds of people had dispersed a little, and Lucy, back again in a world of reality, thanked her host and hostess in her rather halting French for the delightful evening, adding an apology for the inadequacy of her thanks.

Monsieur le Marquand, bowing over her hand, smiled at her.

“Your thanks, little one, are in the dreams which still linger in your blue eyes! And they are more than adequate!”

They had to wait briefly before the car arrived at the door. Involuntarily Lucy shivered a little, for after the warmth of the Opera House, the night air struck chilly. Owen said nothing, but when they got into the car, he took a fur cape which Lucy recognised as one Mrs. Mayberry sometimes wore from the front seat and put it round her shoulders.

Snuggled in its soft cosiness, Lucy sat back, living over again what she had seen and heard. Bemused by the memory of so much beauty, she was startled when the car stopped.

“Is anything wrong?” she asked anxiously and then, in astonishment: “Why, we’re home! It hardly took any time at all!”

Owen laughed softly as he helped her out.

“About the same as usual. But then time doesn’t exist in a dream world, does it?”

“Perhaps not, but I’ve been very rude,” Lucy said regretfully as they crossed the veranda and went into the villa. “I remembered to thank Monsieur le Marquand and his wife for inviting me, but really it’s you I ought to thank for taking me. I do thank you, Owen, with all my heart! I shall never forget this evening!” Owen took both her hands in his and gazed down into her flushed, upturned face.

“Nor shall I,” he said softly.

There was a moment of silence that held a strange tenseness. Then, gently, Owen turned her round and propelled her in the direction of her room.

“It’s late,” he told her. “And young ladies who have visited fairyland need a good settling dose of sleep! Off you go—and pleasant dreams!”

Laughing, Lucy did as she was told, only to pause in front of her mirror, looking at her own reflection with dreamy eyes, to undress slowly and with frequent pauses, thinking again of this delight and that— Slowly she got into bed and lay with her hands linked above her head. What a wonderful—what a perfect day it had been—

And was startled to remember that it was still the very same day as that on which she had seen Dick and he had been so horrible.

“I’d forgotten all about it,” she thought in wonder. “It seems so long ago—and as if it doesn’t really matter—

She settled down to sleep and her last thought was not of Dick but of Owen. She had called him by his first name, and he hadn't seemed to mind at all!

* * *

In the morning, when she went in to breakfast, Mr. Keane and Owen had already started.

“I'm so sorry I'm late," she apologised. "I'm afraid I slept in!’’

Mr. Keane laughed and asked her what she expected would happen if she kept late hours. ’

“I hear you enjoyed yourself very much," he added.

“It was wonderful," Lucy sighed, something of her dreams still in her eyes. “So wonderful that I-can hardly believe it happened to me!"

Both men laughed at her quaint phrasing, and then Mr. Keane gave a little exclamation.

“That reminds me, there’s another treat in store for you—for all of us, except Louise who doesn’t feel quite up to it.’’

“Oh?” Owen looked up from helping himself to marmalade. “And what’s that?’’

Mr. Keane pointed out of the window.

“That yacht
—La Mouette.
You know I told you it had changed hands? Well, it turns out that the present owner of it happens to be an acquaintance of mine and he’s asked us all to lunch with him on board. His name is Kelsall, by the way."

MR. KEANE'S announcement was followed by a silence that seemed to Lucy to be interminable. He, of course, had no idea of the predicament she was in, since he did not know that Dick had married Gwenda Kelsall. But Owen must know exactly what she was thinking.

Yesterday she had not asked Dick where he and his wife were staying, but since
La Mouette
belonged to Mr. Kelsall it was only reasonable to assume that they were with him. In that case, how could she, Lucy, possibly accept Mr. Kelsall’s invitation? But it had already been accepted on her behalf, and to back out now meant giving a very good reason for doing so. That she had, of course, but it was hardly one she could give, certainly not to Mr. Kelsall, and only reluctantly to Mr. Keane, who would then be put in a very embarrassing position. The situation was made even worse by the fact that she, a mere employee at the Villa des Fleurs, had been very kindly included in the invitation.

“Kelsall?” Owen asked casually. “Is that the bigtime property man?”

“That’s right. I’ve come in contact with him over some of his deals, and though he’s perhaps something of a rough diamond, he’s a pleasant enough fellow at heart.” And then, evidently realising that his announcement had not given rise to the enthusiasm he had anticipated, he asked anxiously: “I hope you don’t mind me having let you in for a bit of lionising, Owen, but really, it was difficult to get out of it. He was rather insistent.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Owen said with a casualness that startled and disconcerted Lucy. “Just what is the drill?”

“He’s sending a boat ashore to collect us at half past twelve,” Mr. Keane explained, getting up from the table as he spoke. “Does that suit you?”

“We’ll be ready,” Owen promised, and with a nod, Mr. Keane went out of the room.

As the door shut behind him Lucy turned to Owen. “But I can’t possibly go, Mr. Vaughan!” she said imploringly.

“But, my dear, in the circumstances, what else can you do?” Owen asked gravely.

“I know,” Lucy admitted, trying to speak calmly. “That is, not without explaining why I don’t want to go. And I don’t see how that can be done. Yet—”

“I do appreciate how you feel, Lucy,” Owen agreed. “What’s more, I feel the same way—on my own account as well as yours. I wish to goodness Uncle Stanley hadn’t let us in for it, but he has—and the only way to get out of it would be by hurting his feelings. And I’m too fond of the old boy to want to do that.”

“I know. So am I,” Lucy sighed.

“So do you think we could prop each other up— put a good face on it and let him down lightly?”

Lucy hesitated.

“In one way, it doesn’t matter whether I see Dick or not. I mean, it won’t make any difference to how I feel—or rather, don’t feel about him. But you do realise, don’t you, that it will be a terribly awkward situation?”

“Yes, I appreciate that,” Owen nodded.

Yet still Lucy was reluctant to commit herself. She could not help remembering that there had been a time when . Owen had inveigled her into taking a definite line of action by giving her a reason for doing so which had at the time seemed convincing but which had turned out not to be his real motive. She had forgotten that particular facet of his personality of late, but now she wondered—

She leaned towards him.

“You do believe that I am—what was it you said yesterday—‘cured’ of Dick?” she asked earnestly. “You don’t think that he and I—put our heads together and contrived this meeting?”

Owen met her eyes unflinchingly.

“On my honour, such a thought never so much as entered my mind,” he assured her.

Lucy sighed, though whether with relief or resignation she hardly knew.

“Very well, then, HI see it through,” she promised.

* * *

Quite deliberately Lucy chose a very simple dress and used only the minimum amount of make-up. She had no intention whatever of trying to shine at this lunch party or attract attention in any way. She was, after all, an employee out here to do a job of work, though it was sometimes difficult to remember that when everybody else seemed to forget it. But just because of that, it was all the more up to her not to push herself forward. And if that made her appear rather dull and uninteresting, well, so much the better on this occasion.

At the last moment she decided to wear a wide- brimmed hat which shaded her face, and as they left the villa, she slipped on a pair of dark glasses.

At the quay they found a little motor-boat bobbing gently up and down in charge of one of the crew of
La Mouette.
They took their places and a moment later were making the short trip to the beautiful white yacht.

An accommodation ladder had been lowered over her side and at the top of it a rather stout, middle-aged man stood waiting to greet them.

“Very pleased to see you all,” he announced heartily. "Now, this will be Miss Darvill—”

“Mr. Kelsall,” Mr. Keane murmured to Lucy.

She felt her hand enveloped in a firm, rather fleshy grasp, said a few words of appreciation for the invitation and quietly stepped to one side.

“And you,” Mr. Kelsall went on, turning to Owen, “are the famous Owen Vaughan!”

Naturally, Owen made no comment at being described in such a way, but Lucy could sense a withdrawal in his manner. She realised what he had meant by saying he wished to goodness Mr. Keane had not let them in for this party. Evidently he had gone through similar experiences of blatant lionising before, and had realised what he would be likely to meet on this occasion.

Talking just rather too loudly, Mr. Kelsall now led them towards the sun deck where a group of people were chattering and laughing as they sipped their drinks. Altogether there were about half a dozen of them, but Dick was not among them, and for one hopeful moment Lucy wondered if, after all, he and his wife would not be present.

But almost at that moment the motor-boat, which had returned to the quayside, came back with three more passengers, two women and a man. And the man was Dick. One of the women wore a hat even bigger than Lucy’s, as well as dark glasses. The other, hanging possessively on to Dick’s arm, was unmistakably Gwenda.

Lucy held her breath as she came face to face with Dick’s wife. She had, of course, seen that picture of her in the newspaper, but she was not prepared for what she now saw.

Gwenda Corbett had been born after her father’s feet were firmly placed on the ladder of success. As a result, she had been brought up to believe, as he did, that if you pay top price you must of a necessity get the best. Unfortunately, rigid adherence to this formula was combined in Gwenda with a complete lack of taste. Everything about her, her clothes, her jewellery, her make-up and her hair style, while in the height of fashion, appeared exaggerated and unsuitable for a girl as young as she was, nor could they do anything to soften the essential hardness of her face. Appalled though Lucy had been at Dick’s disloyalty to his wife it was impossible not to appreciate the significance of her thin lips and her coldly calculating eyes. In all her life Gwenda had never been denied anything she wanted and she had no intention whatever of allowing that state of affairs to alter.