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Marion looked at her sharply. She had thought Lucy too simple a type to possess such worldly wisdom and wondered what lay behind it. However, to pursue that line would side-track the conversation from the path she firmly intended to take, so she let it go.

“I suppose you’re right,” she admitted. “But how much nicer it would be if one could live in the clouds all the time! Coming down to earth can be so very painful.” She sighed deeply. “As I found it to be last night.”

Lucy wished she could tell Marion that she would much rather not listen to her confidences, but she knew that she had not the finesse to do so without giving offense, so she said nothing. But lack of encouragement had no effect.

“Owen was very naughty,” Marion went on regretfully. “To make you sing, I mean. It was so inconsiderate—but that’s just it. Sometimes he is so thoughtless of other people’s feelings. But you will forgive him, won’t you—for my sake?”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Lucy said quickly. Marion could have boxed her ears. Really, the girl was too stupid for words!

“Oh, but my dear, there
is,”
she insisted. “I only wish there wasn’t, but sometimes Owen can’t resist playing that Svengali trick of his—”

“I don’t think I understand,” Lucy told her discouragingly. “And really I think—”

“Oh, but surely you know the story of Svengali and Trilby?” Marion interrupted quickly. “The girl who could only sing when she was mesmerised?”

Yes, of course Lucy knew it, and against her will she remembered how compelling Owen’s dark eyes had been—

“Of course, not really like Svengali,” Marion went on. “It’s more that he can make people do what he wants them to against their will. I’ve seen him do it several times and it always makes me shiver, especially as he finds it so amusing.”

As he had found it amusing on Sunday evening when she had so innocently asked if she could be present at the “show”.

“I tried to persuade him not to try it on you,” Marion went on with a sigh. “But it was no use. He was so confident that he could compel you—”

Confident of his own powers, not of hers. That was why he had been so sure that she would not let him down—and why he had avoided explaining what had made him so determined—

“I’ve had to come to the conclusion that he can’t help it,” Marion went on softly, well content with the impression Lucy’s silence told her she had achieved. “I think it must be some sort of childish exhibitionism, the result, perhaps, of living at such close quarters with an older and such a very strong personality—” Lucy stood up suddenly.

“If you don’t mind, I would really rather not listen to any criticisms of my employer,” she said bluntly. “It seems to me disloyal.”

“Oh, my dear, yes, of course,” Marion said apologetically. “I should have been more thoughtful. But I’m so worried—”

Lucy did not reply, and Marion, realising that she had lost ground, went on wistfully:

“But you will forgive my poor Owen?”

“There’s no question of forgiveness,” Lucy said with a dignity that surprised her almost as much as it did Marion. “I shall not give the matter another thought! And now, if 'you will forgive me, Miss Singleton, I really must get on with my work.”

With more apologies and an effusive farewell, Marion drifted out of the study.

Lucy sat very still.

So that was Owen! Well, she might have known it! Hadn’t he, the very first day they had met, exerted a very similar sort of domination over her? Stupidly, though she had resented it at the time, she had allowed herself to forget it—had allowed herself to get on practically friendly terms. But he had not forgotten— and it had amused him to show his power again, in front of an audience.

“He will never be able to do it again,” she vowed. “I'll see to that!” And then, bitterly: “Of course, really I’ve only myself to thank. If I hadn’t wanted to push myself in where I don’t belong—well, that will never happen again, either. And now, for goodness' sake, get on with your work, girl! At least you can make a reasonable success of that.”

But as she fitted fresh paper into the machine, she suddenly paused. Why had Marion talked so freely to her? If, as she said, Owen’s trick of showing off distressed her wouldn’t it be more natural not to want to talk about it to anyone, least of all to someone whom she must regard as a social inferior? Indeed, unless she had some very good reason for being so frank, it seemed to Lucy that Marion had been guilty of disloyalty to the man whom she loved.

But what reason could there be? Did she think it only right that Lucy should be warned in case Owen attempted such a thing again? But wasn’t that unlikely? To a man with a mentality like Owen’s, surely it would be poor sport to continue making a butt of the same victim, particularly one who had proved such easy game. Far more likely, Lucy thought, that he would look for fresh worlds to conquer, in which case, she was safe. But if she realised that, then Marion who had a far deeper knowledge of Owen ought to have realised it as well and so need have said nothing.

Lucy shook her head and got on with her job. It was all really too puzzling and too unpleasant to dwell upon. Much better to do as she had told Marion she intended—forget all about it.

* * *

But that, Lucy found, was not easy. Safe or not, she intended taking no chances, and that meant she must be constantly on her guard.

As far as was possible without making it too obvious she avoided Owen, particularly on occasions when Mrs. Mayberry was not present. She was not sure whether he noticed this or not, but at least he made no comment. All the same, it was a relief when he went up to town for a few days and she could consequently relax her guard.

He came back sooner than he had anticipated, however, reporting that London was unendurable in the heat and that he had begged off from a very formal reception because he could not face the thought of a stiff shirt and collar.

“I made what I thought was a convincing explanation to my host,” he admitted with a grin, “but he wasn’t taken in. He said he didn’t blame me in the least and he’d get out of it himself if he’d got half a chance!”

Lucy, to whom the remark was addressed, made no reply. His early return had caught her at a disadvantage. It really was a very hot day and she had been grateful for Mrs. Mayberry’s suggestion that they should both take the afternoon off. As a result, when Owen arrived, Lucy was sitting reading in the shade of a big tree and had no chance of escaping when he left the car on the gravel drive and strolled over to her. Worse than that, there was an empty deck chair beside her and as a matter of course he dropped down in it. Lucy greeted him briefly and without comment, but that did not prevent Owen from giving his explanation.

“Lord, it’s good to be back,” he went on, settling himself more comfortably in the chair. “I’ve been dreaming of what it would be like here all the way down, only to find it’s even better than I’d thought possible. And that’s in no small measure your doing, Lucy. You enhance the scene considerably in that blue outfit.”

Lucy shrugged her shoulders and returned to her book. If he thought he was going to get round her by paying compliments—

“In fact,” Owen went on lazily, “there’s only one thing missing—a long, cool drink—”

Lucy jumped to her feet. It was annoying that he had interrupted her quiet afternoon, but at least here was a way of escape.

“I’ll go and see about it,” she offered.

Instantly Owen shot out a long arm and caught her by the wrist.

“No, don't do that! I've an idea that if you do, you'll send out one of the maids with it and not come back yourself—and I'm enjoying your company."

Deciding that it was wiser not to give in to the natural instinct to struggle, Lucy stood perfectly still.

“Will you please let go, Mr. Vaughan?" she said coldly.

“Certainly—if you'll sit down again," he promised, not relaxing his grip in the least. “How about it?"

“Don't you think you're being rather silly, Mr. Vaughan?" Lucy suggested. “If I want to go indoors, it really is my own business—"

“But you don't want to go," he said softly. “Or rather you didn't. I'm quite sure you’d planned to stay here—your book and a writing pad and a pen make that clear."

“I've changed my mind," Lucy told him shortly.

“Obviously—and the reason is equally obvious," Owen retorted coolly. “It’s because I've turned up!"

“Then, if you realise that, don't you think it's rather bad-mannered of you to try to make me stay?" Lucy suggested.

“Very," Owen agreed. “But the trouble is, you've raised my curiosity to fever heat—and I want to know what it’s all about."

“I don't know—" Lucy began, but he shook his head.

“I think you do," he insisted quietly. “But in case I'm wrong. I’ll explain. Since last Monday—the day after the show—you’ve been dodging me as if I’ve got the plague and freezing me if you couldn’t dodge. Now, if I let you go, you'll not come back. What's wrong, Lucy?"

She shook her head, determined not to explain.

“You’re not afraid of me, are you?” he asked softly.

“Certainly not!” Lucy retorted indignantly.

“No? I’m glad to hear it—but it would be more convincing if you’d sit down again as I ask instead of running away!”

And since she knew that nothing she could say would convince him now that she would not be running away, Lucy sat down. Instantly Owen let go of her wrist.

“That’s better!” he announced. “And now tell me, what have I done to annoy you?”

Lucy, sitting very erect, her hands clasped round her knees, merely shrugged her shoulders.

“Of course, I know why you disliked me so at first,” Owen reflected. “I bullied you unmercifully, didn’t I?”

“You were certainly very unpleasant.”

“So I was,” he agreed calmly. “But if you’re honest, you’ll admit that my bullying helped you to face up to things far better than any amount of sympathy would have done. Isn’t that true?”

“Perhaps,” Lucy said grudgingly. “But if you remember, at the time you said that if you could sting me into showing some sort of pride you wouldn’t have to put up with seeing me mooning about like a rag doll with its stuffing running out! So you can’t pretend that it was disinterested kindness on your part any more than—” she stopped short, but she had already said too much.

“Any more than—what?” Owen demanded, suddenly very alert. “No?” as Lucy set her mouth firmly. “You’re not very co-operative, are you? Never mind, I expect I can find out. I think you were going to say:
‘any more than—something else—was disinterested.'
And that ‘something else’ is what has upset you. Now what can it be? Not, of course, anything to do with my letting you in for singing? No, it couldn’t have been that because you assured me, I’m sure in all sincerity, that there was nothing to forgive me for on that score.”

Lucy did not reply, but her expression must have betrayed her, for Owen sat up suddenly.

“D’you know, I believe, after all, it was that! That means that between Sunday evening and—let’s see— Monday lunch time? About then, anyway, you changed your mind. You decided that I had done something beyond forgiveness, didn’t you? And since we hardly exchanged a word on Monday morning, so far as I remember, it must be on account of something that happened before then—yes, I’m sure it was that singing business! Am I right, Lucy? And if so, what was it?”

Lucy hesitated. She knew quite well that Owen would not rest until he had got to the bottom of the puzzle, yet she could not bring herself to tell him the entire truth. That would mean bringing Marion Singleton into it, and that she was determined not to do. How could she? Marion had confided in her, and though she had felt that was wrong—no,
because
she had felt it was wrong, it simply wasn’t possible for her to make matters worse by breaking that confidence. “I’m waiting, Lucy,” Owen said softly.

“Very well, I’ll tell you,” Lucy agreed. “Do you remember, on Sunday night,- I asked you why you had been so determined that I should sing?”

“Did you? Yes, I believe you did.”

“But you didn’t tell me,” Lucy went on. “Do you remember that as well?”

“Possibly. But
you
remember, don’t you, that I had told you
everybody
performed?”

“Yes, you did,” Lucy admitted. “But I don’t think it was unreasonable for me not to realise that included me. After all, everyone else was a professional—”

“Not Aunt Louise, not Manderville, not me," Owen murmured, his eyes half closed.

“Perhaps not—but all three of you have pretty high standards, and you're used to performing in front of an audience, even if it is made up of your friends."

“True,” Owen admitted. “So—”

“So why were you so determined to risk making both me and yourself look silly?”

“No risk at all. There’s something about your speaking voice that convinced me you could sing. And since you had the pleasure of hearing all the others, I didn’t see why you shouldn’t do your bit. Satisfied?”

“No,” Lucy told him bluntly. “I think there was another reason than that!”

“Well, you tell me what it was,” he suggested lazily.

“The evening before—Saturday—when I asked you if I could be there, you were amused,” Lucy said accusingly. “I couldn’t understand then, but afterwards—”

“Afterwards, you did?” he suggested. “And what were your conclusions?”

“I think,” Lucy said deliberately, “that you were amused not only because you knew what you had planned to let me in for—and that I had no idea of it, but also because—” she paused, seeking the right words. “Because you enjoy making people do what you want—making them do better than they really can—”

“My good child!” Owen was wide awake now. “Do you mean you think I put on a sort of Svengali act— good lord, yes, you do! Well, of all the—”

“You never took your eyes off me once,” Lucy accused him. “And—and I couldn’t look away—”

“Couldn’t you now? That’s interesting.” Owen stood up and looked down at her thoughtfully. “Well, my child, you’ve come to entirely the wrong conclusion.”