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“Not that I really know anything about them,” she confessed, suddenly self-conscious at having expressed such definite opinions. “But then perhaps no one can know unless they themselves create something—”

Lord Manderville considered.

“I am not sure you are right over that,” he told her. “You appear to me to have considerable natural taste —and as for not creating anything, have you never realised that you, the appreciative audience, are the real creators of all successful artists? Oh, yes,~ that’s true! Without you, they simply would not exist.”

“I think that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever had said to me,” Lucy told him happily. “You’ve made me feel so tremendously important and clever!”

And they laughed together like old friends.

The evening passed quickly, although to Lucy’s surprise, neither then nor on the following day was there any suggestion that use should be made of the music room. She had taken it for granted that there would be some sort of informal concert, but instead, during the day everyone went their own way and both the evenings were spent in conversation, sometimes above Lucy’s head, sometimes amusing, but always interesting. Only Marion Singleton seemed to take little part in it and Lucy, seeing her sitting quiet and, incredibly, rather out of things, found the courage to go and sit by her and tell her shyly how much she enjoyed her singing. Instantly Marion came to life.

“How quite charming of you, my dear,” she said in that rich, warm voice. “How many times have you heard me sing?”

“Oh, I’m afraid I haven't been to any of your concerts,” Lucy confessed, shamefaced. “But on radio and television—and I’ve got most of your records, I think.”

“I'm making some new ones soon,” Marion told her. “Would you like an autographed recording of a special favourite?”

“I’d love it!” Lucy said enthusiastically, and at that moment Owen drifted over to them.

“Now what are you two girls gossiping about?” he asked lightly. “The latest thing in hairstyles—or was it clothes?”

“We weren’t gossiping at all,” Lucy told him indignantly. “We were talking about Miss Singleton’s records—and she has very kindly promised to let me have an autographed one.”

“She’s got a frightful memory,” Owen remarked with a sidelong look at Marion which Lucy could not interpret. “But I’ll keep her up to it—I believe in advertising!”

There was a brief silence which Lucy found embarrassing. Then Owen turned to her.

“Lucy, Aunt Louise is turning in now and she’d like to have a word with you first.”

“There’s nothing wrong, is there?” Lucy asked anxiously with a glance at her watch. “I thought, at dinner time, that she looked particularly well— better than she has ever since I came.”

“Yes, she was thoroughly enjoying herself,” Owen confirmed. “No, there’s nothing wrong. But she wants to make sure that she is all right for tomorrow evening, so she’s going to bed early tonight.”

“Tomorrow night?” Lucy asked vaguely. “Is there something special about that?”

“Oh, I thought Aunt Louise would have told you. Yes, we always end up a week like this with a show —everybody doing a turn, including Aunt Louise. She wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Oh!” Lucy said breathlessly. “And can I be there? Can I listen?”

“Oh, yes, certainly you can be there, and certainly you can listen,” Owen promised.

Lucy looked at him in a puzzled way. He had spoken in a way which had suggested that he was consumed with inward laughter, but as he evidently had no intention of telling her what the joke was, she shrugged her shoulders and went across the room to speak to Mrs. Mayberry.

* * *

The next morning such of the guests as did not go to church found some occupation out of doors, some walking, some simply lazing in the sunshine and in the case of Owen and Marion, riding.

Only Lucy felt that she could not treat the day as a holiday, for though she had been encouraged to feel part of the houseparty, she was none the less an employee and did not want to give the impression that she was taking too much for granted.

But when she heard the sound of horses’ hooves on the gravel outside she was irresistibly drawn from her desk to the window. Owen and Marion had paused for a. moment to speak to Mrs. Mayberry, and Lucy thought she had never seen such a handsome couple. They were so perfectly matched, both tall, so alike in colouring and each so completely self-assured.

Lucy turned away from the window with a little lump in her throat. This was an entirely new world into which she had strayed and despite the kindness she had received she knew she did not belong to it and never would. Tears stung her eyes as appreciation of her own inadequacy came home to her, and she envied these people from the bottom of her heart—not because of their wealth and position but because they were so completely at their ease, so able to make a success of life, so fearless.

And those were qualities which Lucy had lost and which she knew she would never possess again. How could she when once she had proved to be so blind, so stupidly trusting? For the rest of her life, no matter what sort of appearance pride forced her to keep up, she would be assailed by doubts and fears—

She began to hammer away on the typewriter, forcing herself to concentrate on tier notes until Robin strolled into the room and announced that Mrs. Mayberry had sent him to bring her out.

“She says it’s against the rules to work on one of these weekends,” he explained, and when Lucy began to protest he went on coaxingly: “Oh, do come out! Celia and I have invented a new sort of croquet. You swop balls after each stroke, so the game is to leave your ball in as awkward a position as possible for the confounding of your opponent. It’s great fun!”

So Lucy let herself be persuaded and was shortly not only convulsed at Robin’s antics but was also beating him hollow since, as she had never played the game before she was making such bad strokes that Robin could neither make them worse for her nor contrive to get through the right hoop and so score a point. It was just as Lucy, eyes tight shut, hit the ball so that it glanced off Robin’s foot and went clean through the hoop that Owen and Marion returned.

They had walked round from the stables, and Marion paused in astonishment at the sight of Lucy convulsed with laughter while Robin, riding his mallet like a hobby-horse, protested that she’d only beaten him by a foul and appealed to Lord Manderville for a decision in his favour.

“Well, well, well," Marion said softly. “Robin seems to have worked a miracle. The little secretary girl looks positively animated!”

“So she did last night when she was telling you how much she liked your singing,” Owen reminded her shortly.

Marion’s eyes narrowed slightly. She was not particularly fond of riding, but she had been quite willing to accompany Owen because she was sure he had suggested it in order to make an ideal opportunity for coming to the point. And instead of that, he had spent almost all the time telling her about a winter festival that he was planning. Of course it was true that she would take a leading part in it, but that wasn’t the point. And now he was really speaking quite sharply to her.

“Yes, bless her,” she agreed sympathetically. “So she did—but terribly serious, all the same. And that was why I was so surprised—and pleased—to see her laughing like this. She’s so serious, and at her age life ought to be fun, not frightfully real and earnest all the time!”

Owen made no comment since they had now reached the group on the terrace, but the slight frown had cleared from his face and Marion gave a little sigh of relief. That hurdle safely passed! But she must remember in future—Owen was the sort of man who hated to hear one woman criticise another simply on principle.

Or was it something more personal than that? Was it that he demanded absolute perfection as essential in his future wife? Or, disturbingly, was he sufficiently interested in the little secretary to resent criticism of her?

Marion quickly made up her mind how she would deal with that possibility.

* * *

The show, as Owen had called it, was at its height. He himself had opened it by playing the “Entry of the Gladiators” with considerable verve and brilliance. That, it appeared, was traditional on these occasions, partly as he had explained, in order to make it clear that no mercy would be shown to any shirkers and partly so that he was in a strong position to harry them if they tried it on.

Sinclair Forbes who, as a conductor, had a comprehensive knowledge of most musical instruments, chose to perform on a harmonica and brought the house down with his rendering of “Three Blind Mice” with variations, his long, lean face as serious and absorbed as when he was conducting the orchestra he had made famous.

Then the Littleton twins played a duet which began with a slow, simple movement, but gradually both tempo and embellishments increased until it was impossible to follow the flashing movements of their hands. They concluded with a crashing chord and went back to their seats.

After the twins came Lord Manderville. To Owen's accompaniment he played Mendelssohn’s “Overture to A Midsummer Night’s Dream”, and if his performance was not quite up to professional standards, Lucy had no fault to find with it and joined wholeheartedly in the applause which followed.

There was a little pause.

“Now you,” Owen announced.

No one moved, and Lucy glanced round in surprise. Everyone else had seemed to know when it was their turn.

“You,”
Owen repeated. “Lucy!”

“Oh, no!” She shrank back in sheer horror.

“Oh, yes,” Owen contradicted firmly. “I told you that we all perform. Now then, what’s it going to be?”

“But—but I don’t play the piano—or anything,” Lucy explained breathlessly. “Truly I don’t.”

“Then you must sing,” Owen told her inexorably. “Come along!”

He beckoned to her, looking at her through half-closed eyes, and before Lucy knew what had happened she found herself standing by the piano.

“As a concession, you may stand with your back to your audience,” he announced. “That’s it!”

But the concession, if it was that, meant that she was facing Owen himself as he sat down at the piano, and because his eyes never left her face, neither could she look away from his.

“Do you know the words of this song?” he asked, playing a few bars.

“Yes,” Lucy whispered.

“Then here we go!”

And without any volition on her part, Lucy found herself singing, timidly at first and then with growing confidence.

“Maxwelton braes are bonnie,

When early falls the dew—”

And so to the last verse:

“Like dew on the gowans lying

Is the fall o’ her fairy feet,

An’ like winds in summer sighing

Her voice is low and sweet. .

Her voice is low and sweet

And she’s a’ the world to me;

And for bonnie Annie Laurie

I'd lay me doon an’ dee.”

There was a moment’s silence as voice and music faded away—a silence that a professional could have told her meant far more than the applause which followed. She slipped back to her chair, blushing furiously, and found her hand gently taken by Lord Manderville.

“Thank you, my dear, that was delightful!”

“Oh, you’re very kind,” Lucy stammered. “But—”

“My dear, I’m not being kind, I’m being truthful,” Lord Manderville said firmly. “I know, as of course you do, that your voice is not strong enough for you to take up singing professionally. None the less, just like the girl in your song, it’s low and sweet—and very pure. It gave me great pleasure to listen to you— particularly as you sang that song. My wife used to sing it to me.”

Lucy gave his hand a little squeeze of gratitude and sympathy and turned to watch Lisa Freyne give two short impersonations. But brilliant though she was, neither she nor the following turns made any real impression on Lucy.

She felt completely dazed—dazed and bewildered and strangely exultant.

She, ordinary, insignificant Lucy Darvill, had been accepted by these wonderful people as one of themselves! Not that she overrated the measure of her success, for despite what Lord Manderville had said, she knew quite well that she had been judged by kinder standards than they set themselves. None the less, she need not feel an outsider any more, and the doubts and fears which had assailed her only that morning dwindled to insignificance. And the astonishing thing was that all that she owed to Owen—

Later that evening, when they were all in the drawing room he came over and sat down beside her. “Forgiven me yet?” he asked quizzically.

“Yes,” Lucy said shyly. “In fact, there’s nothing to forgive—except I—I wish you’d warned me—”

“Not likely!” Owen declared stoutly. “You’d have worried yourself sick—and had time to think up some plausible excuse!”

“But why were you so determined that I should take part? Supposing—supposing I’d let you down?” Her eyes widened at the mere thought of such a thing.

Owen smiled, but he chose only to answer her second question.

“I knew there was no danger of that, Lucy.’

And left her to wonder just why he had been so confident and even more why he had thought it worth while to go to the trouble of bringing her out of her obscurity as he had done.

BY lunch time the next day all the guests had left, though not all at the same time. Marion was the last to go, but not before she, like the others, had said a special goodbye to Lucy.

She came to the study, smiling and friendly, to assure Lucy that she would not forget the autographed record.

“Though Owen is quite right, I do forget things.” She hesitated, her lovely face troubled. “It’s odd, isn’t it, that two people can be as deeply in love as he and I are and yet see each other’s faults so clearly.”

Lucy was not surprised to hear it confirmed that Owen and Marion were in love, but she felt it was rather strange that she should be the recipient of such a confidence.

“Perhaps it’s better that way,” she suggested awkwardly. “After all, no one is perfect, so what’s the good of being blind to faults, even if one is in love?”