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“Indiscreet? And what do you mean by that?”

“Le Marquand—you remember him? A very useful man! Well, le Marquand saw you in Nice on the evening of the day when we lunched on
La Mouette.
You were dining with Mr. Kelsall—”

“What if I was?” Marion flashed at him. “What’s indiscreet about that?”

“According to le Marquand, you appeared to be the picture of health,” Owen said tonelessly. “You were talking and laughing a great deal, and although you yourself were not smoking, the atmosphere was so smoky that he wondered it didn’t make you cough—”

“And I suppose you two put your heads together and came to the conclusion that there was nothing wrong with me and never had been,” Marion said furiously. “Well, you can think What you like! I’m tired of being bullied and badgered by you or anybody else! If I’d known what grinding hard work it meant, not only getting to the top but staying there, I’d never have let you push me into being a singer!”

Owen did not reply, and his silence stung Marion still further.

“I’m thinking of packing up my career,” she declared recklessly.

“In favour of marriage?” Owen suggested almost casually.

“Well—” Marion looked at him between half-closed lids. “Why not?”

Owen shrugged his shoulders.

“Why not, indeed! Kelsall, I imagine?”

“Perhaps.” She laughed softly. “Or—someone else!”

“But I understood that you’ve never fancied any of the offers that have so far been made to you, and have turned them down,” Owen said deliberately. “Is there someone I don’t know about who has entered the lists?”

Her eyes fell. She knew what he was really saying— that he had not, and never had had, any intention of asking her to marry him. It was the most humiliating moment of her life. She hated him, she wanted to hurt him as he had hurt her—

But it couldn’t be true. It couldn’t'! Owen had never exactly made love to her, but all the same—

She put out her hand and laid it on his arm.

“Oh, Owen, what’s happened to us?” she asked plaintively. “We used to be such good friends—”

“Did we?” Owen asked, taking no more notice of her hand than if it had not been there at all. “I think, perhaps, you and I have different ideas of friendship, Marion, just as I'm quite sure that we have different ideas as to the reason why two people should get married.”

Marion snatched her hand away as if it had been scorched.

“Oh? And what are your ideas on that subject?” she asked ironically.

Owen hesitated momentarily.

“I would never dream of asking a girl to marry me unless I was deeply in love with her—and believed her to be the sort of girl who would not agree to marry me unless she felt the same way,” he said quietly.

Marion laughed discordantly.

“Dear little Lucy, I suppose?” she suggested mockingly. “So sweet, so naive, so innocent—what a fool you are, Owen!”

He stood up without replying, and Marion swung herself to her feet and faced him aggressively.

“Oh, you don’t have to admit it, it stuck out a mile! And how she must have laughed up her sleeve at you! Did you know that she’s already been engaged once—and that she was jilted on her wedding day?”

“Yes,” Owen said quietly, “I knew that! I also know who the man was, if it interests you.”

“But I bet there’s one thing you don’t know!” Marion triumphed crudely. “All that business about her going home because her father was ill—you believed it, didn’t you? Well, I’ll tell you what really happened! She’s gone off with Dick Corbett—they left quite brazenly on the same plane—and I know that’s true because Gwenda herself told me! So now what about your precious, innocent Lucy?”

* * *

Lucy had decided that in the meantime at least she would take temporary posts. For one thing it meant shorter hours and for another that she could, if necessary, terminate her appointment more easily or even take a week or so off between jobs. By and by she would have to get a permanent post, of course, one which, if possible, would mean a pension in the future, she decided wryly. Because now, of course, there would never be any question of her getting married.

She had thought the same thing, of course, when Dick had jilted her, but now she could look back on that young, inexperienced Lucy with amazement and the strange feeling that she had been a different girl altogether. How could she ever have believed that the tepid feeling she had felt for Dick had been true, lasting love? But then she knew now what real, deep love meant. It was something that swept one off one’s feet, that could not be killed by indifference or separation—or even the knowledge that the loved one was going to marry someone else.

At that point, Lucy tried hard to stop thinking. She thought Marion was very beautiful and that she had a lovely voice—but there was something about her that struck a false note. If Lucy was honest, she knew that she had not liked Marion from the first time they had met—and had liked her still less lately. She seemed to be so completely self-centred. And Owen was just the reverse. Well, people said that some of the happiest marriages were between opposites. Perhaps it would be so in this case—with all her heart, Lucy hoped so. Owen deserved happiness, seeing how he went out of his way to gain it for others. But she wished she knew for sure—

She never would, of course. She had cut herself off entirely from all of them. Mrs. Mayberry had acknowledged her letter briefly, though pleasantly. She had said that she quite understood how Lucy felt, and that she was not to worry about the money which had been advanced for her fare home, it was to be regarded as a gift. Apart from good wishes for Mr. Darvill's continued improvement, that was all. No reference to Owen, no suggestion that she should ever visit them as a guest by and by—which, of course, was just as well, since such an invitation would have been a temptation, though one which would have had to be withstood.

Since her return, Lucy had received another communication—a postcard, this time, from Dick. It was very brief:

“It worked! Thanks. D.C ”

She was glad about that. She had no feeling, one way or the other, for Dick now, but at least she wished him well. There was no reason why she should do anything else. '

And now she had got to set to work to make still another new life for herself. It wasn’t going to be easy, and this time there would be no one to help her as Owen had helped her before. She had got to stand on her own feet and learn to make something out of nothing. And what was more, she must all the time seem cheerful and content, quite a lot for her parents’ sake, but also because it was the only way in which she could be sure of not being questioned. What had happened was locked away in her own heart and there it had got to stay.

There was, however, one thing about which she could be genuinely cheerful. Mr. Darvill was making excellent progress. There was even talk of him coming home in the not very distant future. In preparation for this, Lucy set to work on his beloved garden. It had been sadly neglected lately, and it meant hard work to get it back to its usual trim condition, but Lucy welcomed that. On top of a tiring day in a stuffy London office it sent her to bed so exhausted that it was easier to sleep than she had thought would be possible. And sleep meant that one did not think— though one dreamed, of course.

Dreamed of a little blue lake hidden in the mountains, of a companion who understood so well that sometimes beauty could be so overwhelming that no words could describe it—dreamed, and woke to the emptiness of reality. Despite her mother’s good cooking, Lucy had no appetite these days, though, fortunately, one could put that down to the heat—

The weather broke, and Lucy, compelled to stay indoors, became restless—so restless that her mother wondered if it had been a good thing for the child to have had that taste of the luxury that money brings or whether there was something else—

It was getting on for a fortnight now since Lucy had returned home. She had completed her first week’s work and the weekend loomed ahead, empty and purposeless. She helped her mother with household tasks on Saturday morning and then announced that, despite the rain, she would take Collie for a walk.

“Oh, darling, but it’s pouring,” Mrs. Darvill protested. “You’ll get soaked! Wait for a bit, it may clear up.”

“Oh, all right,” Lucy said listlessly. “Can I do anything for you?”

“No, dear, but you can do something for yourself,” Mrs. Darvill said briskly. “Your hair—it looks quite awful! Can’t you do something about it?”

So Lucy washed her hair, dried it and combed it into its usual easy natural swirls. Then, because most of her make-up had been washed off, she tidied up her face and went downstairs.

She was half way down when the doorbell rang.

“Answer it, darling, will you?” Mrs. Darvill called from the kitchen. “I’m all over flour—I expect it’s the joint.”

But when Lucy opened the door it wasn’t the butcher or any other tradesman who stood there.

It was Owen.

LUCY stood very still. Wide-eyed, she stared at Owen in sheer consternation. Why had he come? And why, since he was here, didn’t he say something instead of gazing at her as if—as if—

His lips parted and Lucy held her breath.

“It’s raining, Lucy. Aren’t you going to ask me in?”

Speechlessly, she turned and led the way to the sitting room. Behind her she heard a slight rustling sound as Owen took off his light raincoat and hung it up. Then they were alone in the sitting room—and the door was shut firmly behind them.

Owen stood in front of her, but he made no attempt to touch her.

“Do you know why I’ve come?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, to ask how Father is, I suppose,” Lucy said breathlessly. “How very kind of you! He’s improving steadily—”

“I’m delighted to hear it,” Owen announced. “But it’s not on your father’s account that I’m here,” he paused and then went on deliberately. “I came—because I want your help and advice.”

“Mine?” Lucy laughed nervously. “I don’t understand!”

“Do you remember, right at the beginning of our acquaintance, you asked me if I had ever been really up against it? And I admitted that I hadn’t—but that sooner or later I would meet my Waterloo?”

“Yes.” Lucy flushed. “I was very rude, I’m afraid.”

“You certainly were,” Owen agreed fervently. “Well, I’ve come to tell you that it’s happened! I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do—will you try to help me?”

“If—if I can,” Lucy said uncertainly. “After all that you’ve done to help me, it’s the least—”

“Never mind that,” Owen said curtly. “But if you’ll listen to what may seem a very dull little story—”

“Yes, of course. Wouldn’t you like to sit down—?” Lucy suggested.

“No, thanks, I’d rather prowl, if you don’t mind.” He dug his hands deep into his jacket pockets and strode restlessly over to the window. “There was a man,” he began after a moment’s silence, “who met a girl. He admired her from the word ‘go'—and very soon he realized that he was deeply in love with her. But there was a reason, which seemed very good to him, why he did not tell her so.”

“Yes,” Lucy said faintly. Marion—and her career. Owen had felt that it would be selfish to rob her of her triumph so soon—

“So he waited. To be quite honest, there was a certain amount of antagonism between them to begin with—but that went, and they became quite good friends. He even dared to think that, perhaps, she was beginning to care for him. Rather a nerve, wasn’t it?”

“Perhaps—perhaps she wanted to encourage him a little,” Lucy suggested. But how strange! Marion had spoken of them being deeply in love—as if they had confessed as much to one another!

“He was only too glad to persuade himself that was so,” Owen admitted. “But then something went wrong. The girl seemed to drift away from him—”

Mr. Kelsall, of course, Lucy thought indignantly. How could Marion possibly have encouraged him to such a degree that Owen believed he had lost her?

“And suddenly it dawned on him that people—or perhaps one person, was making mischief between him and this girl,” Owen went on, suddenly turning and striding back to face Lucy. “What ought he to do about that, Lucy?”

“What—sort of mischief?” Lucy asked uncertainly.

“Oh, that he was paying attention to another girl,” Owen explained. “It was all nonsense, of course, but not an easy thing to prove—”

“She should have believed him—without proof,” Lucy said hotly. “If he told her that he loved her, and that there wasn’t and never had been anyone else—” She stopped short, biting her lip.

“So he felt,” Owen agreed. “Particularly as this very clever person had told him a story—a beastly story, which he did not for a moment believe—that the girl he loved had run off with a married man. A man, actually, with whom she had once been in love—whom she had been on the point of marrying,” he finished deliberately.

Lucy’s heart turned over. He couldn’t have' said that! He simply couldn’t mean—the familiar room swam dizzily about her.

Owen gathered her hands in his and held them close against his heart.

“Listen to me now, Lucy, for I give you my word that I’m telling you the truth! Marion persuaded you that I was in love with her, didn’t she?”

Unable to speak, Lucy nodded.

“It was not and never has been true,” Owen said steadily. “Any more than the story she told me about you running off with Dick Corbett was true. I know that—because I know you! Can you say the same about me?”

“Oh!” Lucy breathed tremulously. “Yes—if you say it’s true!”

“It is true,” Owen said, his lips against hers, his arms holding her close.

Lucy was lost—drowned—in a sea of happiness. This was bliss such as she had never known before. Owen loved her—it was the fulfilment of her dreams— and it was blessed reality as well. She surrendered to the passion of his kisses, responding to them with all her heart.

Then, suddenly, she drew back.

“Owen, you’ve got to know—I did travel back to England with Dick—” she said anxiously. “But, truth and honour, it was by chance, not design ”

“I knew that, my sweet, even before Kelsall told me that you had talked to the young man like a Dutch uncle—or rather, a Dutch aunt—for his own good, as a result of which he has now got his nose to the grindstone, to the great satisfaction of his father-in-law! Just what made you go out of your way to try to help Corbett, Lucy?”