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“Now look, don’t play the innocent with me!” Marion urged impatiently. “It just isn’t any good.”

“I think you’d better explain—” Lucy suggested crisply.

Marion shrugged her shoulders.

“All right, if you want it that way! Well, Dick jilted you on your wedding day, didn’t he? And that was the very day on which you came to Spindles. You were upset—quite naturally, of course. And Owen realised it, took you in hand and put some spirit into you. As a result, although you resented it at the time, you were ultimately very grateful to him. You’re not going to deny that, are you?”

“I’ve no wish to,” Lucy said coldly. “I have every reason to be grateful to Mr. Vaughan.”

“Yes, I know. But gratitude can be a bit of a bore at times,” Marion drawled. “Particularly when it turns to—love!”

Lucy caught her breath.

“You’ve no right—” she began hotly, but Marion ignored her protest.

“Now look, no woman seeing you when Owen is about could possibly mistake the signs! You hang on to every word he says, you make calf’s eyes at him, and if you can’t get him to yourself, you sulk—”

“It’s not true!” Lucy insisted, nearly in tears.

“Oh, yes, it is,” Marion insisted. “Of course, it’s partly Owen’s own fault. He’s so absurdly kind—he’s always doing good turns to people and it was inevitable that, one day, something like this would happen.” Lucy stared at her in sheer horror. It simply could not be coincidence that Marion had referred to Owen’s kindness and its results in almost identical terms to those which Mrs. Mayberry had used not very much earlier. And now there was added point to that final remark which she had overheard:

“Hints—may not be sufficient. You may have to make the situation clear in so many words
—”

They had been talking about her.

Lucy turned and stumbled from the room.

Lucy lay very still, her face half buried in her pillow. At first, when, she had reached the haven of her own room, she had been too numbed by what Marion had said to think coherently.

Now that initial shock had passed, and odiously crude though Marion had been, Lucy knew that she had spoken nothing but the truth. She did love Owen.

Yet it was only today that she had realised it, and even then she had been reluctant to admit it to herself m so many words. It was so new a discovery, there was such a gossamer quality about it. Lucy had been reminded of that exquisite lace which she and Owen had seen in one of the Monte Carlo shops—so fragile that one would be afraid to handle it. Just like that. She had been content simply to exist in a haze of happiness that needed no words to explain it.

And now, that happiness was shattered into a thousand fragments. And, sick at heart, Lucy knew that she had only herself to thank for being in this predicament.

Looking back, she knew that from the very beginning Owen had been kind to her. At the time she had felt that he had been brutal, but for a long time now she had realised, as he had then, that it was an occasion for shock tactics. Anything else would have encouraged her to indulge in self-pity, perhaps indefinitely.

Yes, she had every cause to feel grateful. Grateful? What was it Mr. Keane had said about gratitude?

“The peculiar thing about gratitude is that it is something of a boomerang. If you have earned it, in time it can happen that you, and not the recipient of your help, become under an obligation—"

An obligation to continue the kindness that is expected of you—that comes to be taken for granted, as Lucy felt she had done.

She remembered how many times since they had come to Monaco he had gone, out of his way to give her pleasure, and it seemed to her now that he had had no other course because she had perhaps dropped a hint or shown an eagerness—

This afternoon, for instance. When he had said he was going for a swim in the pool, she had not been able to hide the fact that she had envied him. So he had been practically compelled to invite her to come as well. Oh, he had done it very charmingly, of course. But all the same—

Nor was that all. There had been an incident a little later, the memory of which scorched Lucy like flame.

On the way back to the villa after their swim, Lucy had stumbled. Instantly Owen had caught her in his arms, holding her up. To Lucy it seemed that time stood still. Then, releasing her, Owen had said lightly: “Hey, steady on! We don’t want another sprained ankle!”

Nothing more than that. But Lucy knew that she had lingered in his arms just that moment longer than was strictly necessary.

Owen had known that, too, and he had realised just what it meant. That explained the determination he had expressed:

"Never again! At least, not—"

He had not finished the sentence, but no doubt he had in some way indicated the window of her room. Perhaps even, he had known that she was listening.

So there it was. She loved Owen. That was why what Dick had done had left no permanent scar. Owen, on the other hand, felt no more than kindness towards her. And she had repaid him by causing him intolerable embarrassment.

With bitter self-scorn, she told herself that she was no better than Gwenda. She had allowed herself to fall in love with a man who owed his allegiance to another girl—perhaps not in any definite thought or words had she hoped that Owen might one day love her, but was that really true? If one loves, of course one hopes for love in return.

Lucy sat up suddenly, clasping her arms round her knees.

With painful clarity she realised that there was only one thing she could do for Owen. She must go right out of his life—and stay out.

At once.
She must leave the Villa des Fleurs the very next day, even though it would inconvenience Mrs. Mayberry. But in view of what Lucy had overheard her say, it seemed probable that she would be so relieved to see the back of her troublesome secretary that she would regard any inconvenience involved as a small price to pay.

But there must be no hint of the real reason why she was going, Lucy thought feverishly. Somehow she must find an excuse which could be accepted without difficulty. That would not only mean that she could hold her own head high, but it would also save Owen from further embarrassment.

But how could one produce a convincing excuse just like that, at the drop of a hat? A few days earlier and she could have made out that it was Dick’s presence. But that excuse had gone since it was most unlikely that she would see him again. And in any case, she had admitted to Owen that she was really indifferent where Dick was concerned. No, she must think of something else—

Still trying to solve the problem of what excuse she could possibly produce, Lucy at last fell asleep.

And with the morning came an excuse such as she had never dreamed of, and which sent her in search of Mrs. Mayberry, white-faced and almost in tears.

“My dear, what is it?” Mrs. Mayberry exclaimed as she came into the room.

Lucy held out an airmail letter which had just come in with the morning mail.

“If you’ll read this,” she said shakily. “It’s from Mother.”

Pulling the trembling girl down on to the edge of her bed, Mrs. Mayberry read the letter.

Mrs. Darvill had written to say that Mr. Darvill had had a heart attack. Not perhaps a very bad one, but none the less, one which the doctor had said must be treated with respect.

“Try not to worry, darling,” Mrs. Darvill wrote. “Daddy is a strong man and a very sensible one. He will do just what he is told, and he is having the very best of attention at the hospital, rest assured of that. I will let you know every day how things are—”

“And not a word about wishing you were there to stand by her!” Mrs. Mayberry marvelled. “Mothers are wonderful people, Lucy!”

“I know,” Lucy said with difficulty. “So are fathers. But I feel I should be there—”

“Of course you do, dear,” Mrs. Mayberry said briskly. “I wonder whether you can get a flight today? Oh, dear, I do wish Owen hadn’t gone out—and I’ve no very great faith in my brother’s ability to make arrangements of this sort in French!”

“Quite likely there’ll be someone who speaks English,” Lucy said, her nerves steadied now that she could make definite plans. “And anyhow, I think I could manage—if I may telephone?”

“Of course—do just whatever is necessary,” Mrs. Mayberry told her. “I’ll send Bertha to your room to pack—”

Lucy got on the telephone and to her relief was told that there was a single seat on a flight leaving Nice in two hours’ time. She reserved it, making a careful note of the time at which she must reach the airport in order to claim it, and went back to Mrs. Mayberry.

“Splendid, my dear,” Mrs. Mayberry said kindly. “Now, money. Go to the top drawer of the chest over there and bring me a leather wallet you will find in it—”

“But really, Mrs. Mayberry, I think I’ve got enough —” Lucy protested.

“We’ll make quite sure of that,” Mrs. Mayberry insisted. “Get the wallet, please, dear.”

She opened it and pulled out some notes. Some were foreign, some English.

“There, I think that will see you through, Lucy.” And then, to Lucy’s relief, she added: “We’ll work out just what it represents in terms of your salary later on. Now, a car to get you to Nice—I’m afraid we shall have to hire one, as Owen has taken his. Telephone through to the same place from which he hired that. And use his name, then there won’t be any hitch. Anything else you can think of?”

“If I could just have a sandwich or something before I leave,” Lucy suggested. “Then I won’t have to waste time once I start.”

“Yes, certainly, a good idea. Yes, what is it, Bertha?”

“Just to say I’ve packed Miss Lucy’s clothes, madam,” Bertha explained. “And I’d like to say how sorry I am about your father, miss.”

“Thank you, Bertha, that’s very kind of you,” Lucy replied gratefully. “And now I’ll go and telephone about the car, Mrs. Mayberry.”

“Oh—” Bertha looked slightly put out, “I’m afraid Miss Marion is on the telephone at the moment, miss.”

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Mayberry frowned slightly. “I hope she won’t be long.”

“I shouldn’t think so, madam. It was a call from London—from Mr. Kelsall, I believe.”

“In that case—no, I don’t suppose it will be a very long one—although I must say that man seems to have no idea whatever about money—oh, well, I suppose he

doesn’t have to.” She paused and then said curiously: “Where is Miss Marion taking the call, Bertha?”

“In the study, madam,” Bertha explained. “I helped her along there.”

“I see,” Mrs. Mayberry said noncommittally. “Well give her a few more minutes and then she will have to end the call.”

But. to Lucy’s relief, there was no need for Marion to be interrupted, for shortly after she came out of the study and limped back to her bedroom. She was smiling in a satisfied sort of way. Mr. Kelsall had been very much upset because he had had to fly to London on business and could not hope to return for a couple of days.

“But when I do get back, the first thing I'm going to do is come and collect you, my dear,” he had told her. “And in the meantime—well, you’ll be getting some more flowers in the morning!”

On the whole, Marion felt thoroughly satisfied with life. Whatever the future might hold, it wasn’t a bad thing to have a man as wealthy as Lawrence Kelsall— well, at least interested in her.

When, later in the day, she heard that Lucy had left Monaco, she felt that everything was playing into her hands.

Lucy arrived at Nice airport with time to spare, which meant that she had time to think, and that was something she did not want to do.

She was truly concerned on her father’s account, and foolishly, felt rather guilty because his illness had provided her with the excuse she had so desperately needed. None the less, she could not put Owen out of her mind. It was a good thing that he was still out when she had left. It saved explanations, and more important than that, it saved the necessity for saying goodbye. It would have been terrible if she had said or done anything which had shown how agonising it was to know that she would never see him again. But she had been spared that—and so had he, which mattered even more.

Vaguely she began to wonder what she would do when she reached home. For a little while, until as she hoped, her father’s condition had definitely improved, she would stay with her mother. But after that—

To her surprise, Mrs. Mayberry had taken it for granted that sooner or later she would return, either to the Villa des Fleurs or to Spindles, and Lucy had promised that she would—if it were possible. But of course she never would. It was out of the question.

At last the announcement was made over the loudspeaker that passengers for her flight should now proceed to the plane. Gathering up her handbag and a few magazines she had bought, she joined the rest of the passengers at the barrier. A few moments later she was in her place in the plane. It was carrying practically a full complement of passengers. In fact, there was only one seat vacant, and that was beside Lucy’s. It would be nice, she thought, if no one sat there—she did not feel like talking, and so often fellow passengers took it for granted that they must make conversation. But she was doomed to disappointment.

Almost at the last moment a belated passenger arrived, hurried along the gangway, and sat down beside Lucy. Inadvertently he sat on the edge of her coat and muttered a word of apology.

“It’s all right,” Lucy said politely. “It was my—” and stopped short.

The latecomer was—Dick Corbett.

* * *

For a moment they stared at one another. Then, just as he had said on that other occasion when they had unexpectedly met in Nice, Dick exclaimed:

“Lucy, what in the world are you doing here?”

All the tension that had been building up since the previous day came to a head. Lucy turned on him.

“What do you mean, what am I doing here?” she demanded spiritedly. “What business is it of yours, and if it comes to that, what are
you
doing here?”

Dick, considerably taken aback by the challenge, left the last question unanswered.