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“No, you’re right, it isn’t a thing to joke about,” he admitted penitently. “I think I was whistling to keep my courage up—and goodness knows, I need something that will do that!”

Mrs. Mayberry patted his hand understandingly.

“What are you going to do, Owen?” she asked anxiously.

“Ultimately, go and see Lucy,” he replied unhesitatingly. “But first I'm going to do something I should have done long ago, and see what reaction that produces. I think it might be rather revealing.”

“Yes,” Mrs. Mayberry agreed. “Yes, I think you’re right, Owen. But you won’t find it pleasant, you know.”

“Fm not so sure of that,” Owen told her grimly. “I think perhaps making a few facts very clear may afford me considerable satisfaction. But you can take my word for it, pleasant or not, I'm going through with it!”

* * *

Marion was reclining at her ease on the veranda. She was in a very pensive mood.

It was no good refusing to admit—to herself, at any rate—that things had not gone the way she had been so sure they would.

As she had seen it, her fortuitous accident, necessitating a stay of several days at the Villa des Fleurs, had meant that Owen would have a welcome opportunity of spending all his time in her company. But it hadn’t worked out like that. In fact, she had hardly seen anything of him at all.

She nibbled her thumb, frowning thoughtfully. She had been furious that she had not had an invitation to stay at the villa until hospitality had been forced on Mr. Keane by her accident. And goodness knows, she’d angled hard enough to get one as soon as she had heard of Owen’s plans.

But that was just it. Owen had been really stuffy when, almost in so many words, she had suggested that he could wangle an invitation for her. He had made it clear, in that irritatingly aloof way he could assume if he liked, that one didn’t do that sort of thing.

At the time she had found an explanation for his attitude. Absurd though it sounded in reference to such a dynamic man as Owen, he was completely under the thumb of that wretched old aunt of his, though heaven alone knew why, seeing that he was quite well off himself. But the fact remained, and so did Marion’s conviction that the old woman didn’t like her, though she’d had the good sense not to show it too much. All the same, what was more likely than that she had got round her brother to leave out the girl she so disliked —or disapproved of as a wife for her precious nephew would perhaps have been more accurate. And in that case, quite likely Owen had had it made clear to him that she wasn’t going to be asked and had consequently been considerably embarrassed when Marion herself had suggested it.

She’d been convinced that was it, and it needed very little self-persuasion to believe that he would have liked her to be with him. All the same, there was clearly nothing to be done about it—until Mr. Kelsall's invitation had come along.

She had met him at a charity concert at which she had been singing. He had asked for an introduction to her, and had told her how much he had enjoyed her singing. A day or so later, he had sent her flowers, and had followed that up with an invitation to lunch. Marion had been in two minds whether to accept it or not. She thought his company would probably bore her. Then, as she had nothing else to do, she finally accepted. And, on the whole, she had not been bored. For one thing, though she did not put it quite so bluntly when thinking over the occasion later, he had encouraged her to talk about herself. What was more, such information as he did impart concerning himself was both interesting and intriguing. For instance, he made no secret of the fact that he was a self-made man and rather proud of the fact. She could understand that. Wasn’t she self-made as well? Oh, of course, Owen had helped a bit, but she was the one who had really done all the work. And then Mr. Kelsall had spoken of the thrill he got out of getting the better of his rivals—she could understand that as well. But he had not gone into any details, any more than he had bragged at all about his wealth. But then he didn’t need to—it was enough simply to demonstrate it. The absolutely first-class restaurant to which he had taken her for lunch, the obsequious service he received, his casual reference to the yacht he had recently bought— these were more than enough.

But he had taken care to give her one definite piece of information—that he was a widower of a good many years’ standing. That appeared to be said very casually, but Marion had a shrewd idea that it had been said with definite intent.

They had seen quite a lot of one another whenever Mr. Kelsall happened to be in London—and that seemed to be with increasing frequency. And then had come the invitation to tour the Mediterranean in
La Mouette.
Marion could have cried with disappointment because of that wretched series of engagements in Germany. It would have been so perfect—she could have killed two birds with one stone. Of course they would stop at Monte Carlo. In fact, Mr. Kelsall had said that he intended doing so, and that he wanted to look up an acquaintance of his who had a villa there. When that acquaintance turned out to be no other than Mr. Keane, Marion decided that by hook or by crook, she must go too.

But just how she could manage it, she could not for the life of her imagine. Her agent attended to the terms of her contracts, but she knew that there was always a penalty clause in them which would apply if she broke one without sufficient reason. Owen would be put out, too, and that she dared not risk. Regretfully, she turned down Mr. Kelsall’s invitation.

And then, just as
La Mouette
had begun her cruise, Marion woke one morning with a relaxed throat. She tried to sing a few notes and produced nothing but a harsh croak. She sent for her doctor, and he in turn advised consulting a specialist.

“I admit that in an ordinary case, I should suggest a few days in bed, confident that that would be all that was necessary. But in the case of an important lady like yourself whose voice means so much to the world —no, I cannot take any chances.”

And the specialist had said the same thing, though he went further. No singing at all until she was completely better, and if possible, had had a holiday.

“But I can’t,” Marion had croaked. “I’ve got engagements that I must keep.”

“The show must go on, eh?” the specialist had quoted. “I know. Well, all I can tell you is that this is not the first time I’ve met with this situation. On one occasion, my patient decided to ignore my warning.”

“And what happened?” Marion whispered huskily.

“Her voice gave out—permanently. Now, Miss Singleton, I don’t want that to happen with you.”

“It mustn’t,” Marion said, genuinely panic-stricken. “I’ve got to earn my living!”

“Well then—” said the specialist gravely.

After that, it was simple. A cruise in the Mediterranean—just the thing! Joyfully Marion had a message wirelessed to
La Mouette
and received a prompt and enthusiastic reply. Her luck had held good. It had even been Mr. Kelsall’s idea that they should surprise Owen about her being there at all. This was when he had told her that a party from the Villa des Fleurs was lunching with them that very day and she had admitted that she was just a little bit afraid that Owen might think she had made too much of her illness in order to be able to have this wonderful, wonderful holiday. Mr. Kelsall had been indignant.

“Well, if he thinks anything like that, he’d better not say it in front of me!” he had declared. “And that's the way we’ll make sure it is! He shan’t have a chance of seeing you in time to think up anything unpleasant to say—or in circumstances where he could, anyway. Now listen to me—”

Well, that had gone off all right, though Owen had been a bit put out. And, of course, she hadn’t bargained with that girl—Lucy—being there, nor known anything about her and Dick Corbett until Gwenda had told her. Still, by and large, she had not been displeased. And then there had been the visit to the villa—and her accident.

' That had put Lawrence Kelsall out quite a bit. He didn’t like leaving her with Owen about. Well, that was just too bad. He had served his turn—and anyway, a bit of opposition would not do any harm, any more than it had done Owen any harm to see all the gorgeous flowers Lawrence had sent her.

But from then on, nothing had turned out as she had anticipated it would. Owen simply avoided her. She wondered if she had overdone it a bit. Was he jealous of Lawrence to the point where he was sulking? It didn’t really seem like Owen, but you never could tell. She’d wondered a little about Lucy as well, but she was out of the way now, thank goodness, so there was no need to worry about her any more, though at one time—

No, it all came back to those two old fogies. Somehow or other, they had got such a hold over Owen that they were in a position to make him keep away from her, even when they were living under the same roof.

Marion scowled. She had laid her plans so carefully, been so sure that they would work out to her complete satisfaction, and now, to be frustrated by two old people who had lived their own lives—it was infuriating! It made her wonder if, after all, marrying Owen was such a good idea.
She
had no wish to spend possibly years dancing to the tune they chose to pipe!

Well then, wouldn’t it be wiser to cut her losses and —she gave a convulsive start. Owen had come out of the open french windows behind her and was now standing beside her.

“I want to have a talk with you, Marion,” he said unsmilingly, making no attempt to apologise for having startled her.

With an effort Marion checked the desire to twit him by asking if Uncle and Auntie had given him permission to speak to her, strong though it was. Better hear what he had to say—

“In that case, you’d better sit down,” she suggested. “It gives me a crick in my neck looking up at you.”

Owen complied, drawing up a chair so that he was practically facing her.

“Well?” Marion asked, realising too late that she had put a defiant note into the word that suggested she felt unsure of herself.

“I want to talk about the future,” Owen went on deliberately. “Your future.”

“What about it?” Marion demanded, her eyes guarded.

Owen regarded her steadily for a moment or two before he answered.

“I’m wondering if you realise just what a pity it is that you had to cancel your German engagements,” he explained.

“Well, of course it was a pity,” Marion’s eyes widened as if to suggest surprise that there could be any other opinion about it. “But these things do happen, you know!”

“Yes, they do,” Owen agreed. “But I wonder if you realise the effect that such a cancellation has on people who are important to your future career?”

Marion sat up suddenly.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she insisted angrily. “I couldn’t sing with a sore throat, could I? Or are you insinuating that it was a put-up job so that I could accept Mr. Kelsall’s invitation?”

It was taking the war into the enemy’s camp with a vengeance, but at least Marion did not lack courage. In any case, boldness quite often paid dividends—

“Because if you are, you’d better think again! I told you that my doctor called in one of the best throat specialists there is. Do you honestly think a man like that would lend himself to trickery of that sort?”

“No, I don’t,” Owen said bluntly. “He wouldn’t be such a fool.”

“Well then—” Marion lay back against her cushions, “what’s this all about?”

“I’ll try to make myself clear,” Owen altered his position slightly. “First of all, I’d like to know just what your plans are. Mr. Kelsall, I understand, is returning later today and you are rejoining
La Mouette
with him?”

“Yes,” Marion said curtly. “Have you any objections?”

Owen ignored the question.

“And the yacht then continues on her cruise,” he went on. “How long will that take?”

“Several weeks—I don’t quite know,” Marion shrugged.

“But long enough for it to mean that you will have to cancel your Belgian tour as well?” Owen persisted.

“I’ve already done that,” Marion announced sulkily.

“Rather prematurely perhaps,” Owen suggested. “It might, I think, have been wiser to have delayed doing that until you had your throat examined again—”

“Why?” Marion demanded. “I told you what Mr. Brecknock said—that I needed a rest and a holiday—”

“I’ll tell you why, Marion. Because it doesn’t do a singer any good to get a name for having throat trouble which requires such a long holiday to restore it,” Owen explained. “No, let me finish. It may be callous, but quite frankly, the people who put engagements your way are hard-headed business folk. They build up a lot of expensive advance publicity for a well-known artist and they don’t want that to go for nothing. Consequently, if you, or anyone else in your position, get the name for being unreliable, don’t you see that they may become chary of engaging you in the future?”

“You’re trying to frighten me,” Marion declared angrily. “I don’t know why, but—”

“I’ll tell you why,” Owen said quietly. “Because you don’t appear to appreciate your own danger! There are always newcomers treading on the heels of the successful ones, you know. Yes, you
do
know that! You know how ruthlessly you had to fight to get to the top!”

“You do think I ought to have gone to Germany— and perhaps wrecked my voice permanently,” Marion declared stormily. “And I don’t think you believe Mr. Brecknock—”

“You’re wrong on both scores,” Owen said wearily. “But if you want to know exactly what I do think, it’s this—I think, as I’ve already told you, that you should have had a second examination before backing out of the Belgian tour. As you didn’t, you’re giving the impression that you’re determined to spin out your 'rest’ just as long as it suits you to—in other words, until this cruise comes to an end—”

“You’ve no right to say that!” Marion protested indignantly. “You’re jumping to conclusions—”

“Am I?” Owen asked deliberately. “I don’t think so. You’ve been very indiscreet, you know, Marion!”