Battle of Love

BATTLE OF LOVE Kathryn Blair

When Catherine's husband was killed in a motor-racing accident, she and her young son were summoned to France to live with her domineering father-in-law, Leon Verender, who had never approved of his son's marriage but was determined to bring up his grandson in his own way. A clash of wills followed, but Catherine eventually won Leon's affection and respect, as well as finding a new happiness and love with Dr. Philippe Sellier.

CHAPTER ONE FROM the Lower Corniche road it was a steep, winding drive among pinewoods to the rich villas on the fringe of Pontrieux. The pines came to an end, garden walls began and the trees behind them were as tropically luxuriant as any to be found on the Mediterranean seaboard. The villas those gardens embellished were almost invisible from the road. A fluted tile roof once in a while, the glimpse of a gay awning over a patio, perhaps an upper window guarded by an ornamental grille; that was all. "There's not a single garden under three acres," said the young man who had met Catherine and Timothy at the airport, "and Mr. Verender has eight acres - the most spectacular garden on the coast. You'll probably find things a bit roomy after a Knightsbridge flat." Catherine smiled. "I like space," she said, "and I was fully expecting an enormous house and garden." "And yet you've never met Leon Verender?" Michael Dean's hazel glance was curious. "I've only been here three years, but I never heard him speak about you till we had to get the lawyer to contact you, about ten months ago. Doesn't it feel a bit odd - to be on the point of meeting your father- in-law for the first time?" "Of course it does. You must know him rather well. How do you think he'll like Timothy?" The young man rested an interested glance on the small fair-haired boy who was standing between them, absorbedly contemplating the road ahead. "He's a fine kid, and the last of the Verenders. But don't count too much on pleasing old sourpuss. If he didn't pay me well I wouldn't stick the Villa Chaussy for another week. And I'm only the man's secretary!"

"I don't intend to be frightened of him," she said. "I got over all fear of Leon Verender a long time ago. Being his secretary, you probably know the history of my marriage to Ewart?" "I've gathered it." Michael Dean was awkward, as an extrovert often is when faced with someone else's remembered grief. "It must have been pretty rugged when your husband was killed. Honestly, I can never understand a married man going in for motor-racing." Catherine kept her gaze on the passing trees. "Ewart had done so much of it before we married. He missed the tearing excitement and the crowds, and was drawn back into it. It seems a lot more than a year since it all happened." "Yes, I guess it does." His clean-cut, uncaring young face was clouded only momentarily. He was looking at Catherine Verender and remembering his surprise at the airport. She had crossed the tarmac gracefully, a slim figure in a heather-blue suit with a tiny matching cap securely set upon pale titian hair that was swathed into a neat sort of pleat at the back. Her hand had held the little boy's, and as Michael had approached them he'd heard her talking cheerfully, as though this were something she did every day - arrive on the Cote d'Azur to meet her future. She was twenty-six; he knew that from the copies of birth and marriage certificates which the lawyer had secured. But somehow he'd ignored the age and pictured her only through what he knew of her. At twenty-one she had married Ewart Verender, and a year later along came Timothy. Two years after that, Ewart had gone back to motor-racing in a blare of publicity, but the comeback was a failure and was terminated by that last fatal race.

Michael hadn't been in on the discussions between the lawyer and old Verender; he had only had to write letters and send money. But it hadn't been difficult to surmise that Leon Verender had forbidden his son's marriage to Catherine, that he had ceased writing to Ewart and apparently not even thought about him till the news of his death was flashed across the continent. Michael had often wondered whether the old man had even known of the existence of his grandson before he had seen it in print: "Ewart Verender leaves a young wife and son." And what a wife, thought Michael. She made the glamour girls on the beach at Nice look like browned potatoes. That hair - it must be quite long - the exceptionally clear blue- green eyes, the fine strong bones of her face, the curving lips just nicely tinted, and the incredibly clear pale skin with its undertone of pink. Not pretty the wide forehead opposed prettiness - and not exactly beautiful, unless you were addicted to fine-boned redheads. She looked quiet and yet vital. The little boy turned round, fixed Michael with his wide- set blue eyes and asked, "Are we nearly there, please?" "The entrance is just round the next bend. There, you can see it now - the white posts on the right. Are you glad to be here?" "Very glad, thank you. But I don't think Beanie is glad."; "Who's Beanie?" "Him." Timothy indicated a tired-looking teddy-Sear which lolled on the floor. "He was sick on the plane." "But he's over it now, darling," said Catherine. "Pick him up and hold him tight. Look at the garden; you never saw flowers like those before."

Some of them Catherine herself had never seen, but just now they appeared as no more than a riot of colour. As they approached the Villa Chaussy she found it impossible to admire palms and bougainvillaea, hibiscus and flame creepers; because, in spite of the calm she had assumed, this was a moment of such tremendous significance that the whole of her being could not help but be aware of it. She wasn't afraid; in fact she rather wanted to meet the rich, successful man who was her father-in-law. But it wasn't going to be as simple as that. From Leon Verender himself she had received only one letter - a dozen words of invitation. It was the lawyer who had made it very plain that as Leon Verender was the child's guardian he had the right to insist that Mrs. Ewart Verender and the child, Timothy Verender, become members of his household. Actually, the discovery that Ewart had named his father as her coguardian of Timothy had come as a blow to Catherine. The man had been against their marriage, had ignored them completely. He had many business interests in London and had many times visited England; she had seen his visits reported in the daily papers. But not once had he ever telephoned the flat. A few times she had mentioned that perhaps Ewart should go over to Pontrieux; if his father was so obstinate it was unlikely he would approach them, but he might be longing for his son to take the first step. "You don't know my old man," Ewart had said with his charming grin. "When I married a kindergarten teacher from Ealing I cooked my goose. What's more, I don't care; he'd expect too much from me, anyway. I wouldn't go to him even if we were broke - and we're not that yet." They'd come pretty near it a few times, but it hadn't mattered terribly. Not till Ewart had started racing again.

The long gleaming car drew up in front of a huge, square, white villa. Green louvred shutters flanked the upper windows, but the lower floor was set back, so that a terrace, supported by curved archway posts, ran from the front entrance to the end of the house. There was a front courtyard or patio and three marble steps up to the arched doorway. Michael Dean slipped out on to the drive. "I'll deal with your luggage in a minute or two. First, I'd better take you into the small salon, and tell Mr. Verender you're here." He touched the little boy's shoulder and indicated the way he should go, and Catherine mounted the steps slightly ahead of them, so that when the door opened suddenly and a man came striding out he nearly swept her off the top step. He was tall and darkish, lean-featured, sallow-skinned. Catherine saw that much as he gripped her arms to save her and exclaimed, "Pardon! Mademoiselle, je vous prie... " "It's nothing," she murmured automatically. Swiftly, his hands dropped. He took a quick glance at Timothy and half bowed. "Madame, I am so sorry. I was hurrying to an appointment. Mille pardons!" And he went down the steps and crossed the drive to his car. Michael then led the way into a long tiled hall. A beautiful hall with lovely inlaid tables set against the walls and flowers and table lamps framed by the grey panelling. Opposite the entrance a treble archway led into a corridor which no doubt gave access to a staircase and lower rooms. "Who was that man?" Catherine asked.

"Dr. Sellier. I suppose I ought to have introduced you. He's Mr. Verender's doctor and looks after the staff, too. He's attending the housekeeper's husband - old chap cracked his knee in the garden and spends his time grousing in the kitchen. Come this way, will you" He opened a tall door and ushered them into a large room which, at first sight, appeared to be filled with works of art. "Sit down, will you? Mr. Verender's probably in the study, just through there." He had nodded towards a door at the end of the room, and after seeing them seated he went to it and knocked, before disappearing and closing the door after him. Catherine stood up again, laid her bag and gloves on a table, kept Timothy's small moist hand in hers and wandered round the room. Chinese rugs on highly polished tiles, a damask sofa and a few chairs on spindly legs with gilding on the mahogany, fine oils on the walls, and odd medieval trophies here and there, on cabinets and small pedestals. "What's that thing?" asked Timothy. "An idol of some sort - a kind of doll, really. Not pretty, is he? But that's a lovely old clock." "Is this the sitting-room? There's no television." "I expect there's one somewhere. In sunny places you don't bother much with television. Darling..." She stopped suddenly, as the door through which Michael Dean had vanished opened again. She felt her fingers tighten about the little boy's hand, felt her shoulders go back and her chin lift. Standing there, braced to meet the man who had ignored her existence for five years, she looked young and proud and sensitive.

He came in, a thick-shouldered man of average height in a light suit. His hair was grey and quite white at the temples, but his features, longish except for the faintly pugnacious jaw, were clearcut, the flesh firmer than one might expect in a man past sixty. His eyes, set fairly close together with the thin bridge of his nose rather prominent between them, were dark, piercing blue. He held out a big capable hand. "So you're Catherine, are you?" he said, in deep, uncompromising tones. "Welcome to the Villa Ghaussy." "Thank you. This is Timothy." "I imagined that. Well, young man?" Timothy was tongue-tied. He stared up at the man, a small boy with pink and white skin, large blue eyes and a bang of fair curly hair over one eye. In navy shorts and jacket with a little white shirt and his first tie, he looked tired from his first plane trip. Catherine said gently, "This is Grandfather, Timothy, Say 'How do you do'." Timothy swallowed. "How do you do, Grandfather." Leon Verender's thick eyebrows came together. He made a grunting sound. '"Looks half asleep," he commented. "Sounds it, too." He turned and called loudly: "Dean, come in here!" Michael obeyed. "Yes, sir?" "Take this toy up to his room." "I'll go with him," said Catherine. "The house is strange to him."

"It won't be strange for long. The boy knows Dean and will be safe with him." Leon Verender waved a hand. "Go along, child. He'll give you tea and cakes and stay with you till your mother comes." Catherine steeled herself. She had to be very careful here; she could feel it. The man was so accustomed to being alone and commanding everyone that if she weren't cautious there'd be trouble right from the beginning. And the very last thing she wanted was trouble. So, as Timothy had taken to Michael, she let the young man shepherd him from the room. But as she looked back at this man who had been her silent adversary for so long, her sinews contracted, ready for battle. As though to confound her, Leon Verender became surprisingly agreeable. "Sit down and we'll have some tea. It's time we knew each other." Catherine couldn't have agreed more. Relieved, she sank into one of the damask chairs. The man rang a bell and told the manservant who answered that he wanted tea for two, quick. Then he too sat down, squarely facing Catherine. "Do you smoke?" "Yes, but not now, thank you." He took a cigar from a silver box on the table, fingered it and dropped it back into the box. "Afraid of me?" he asked. "No," she said, neither shyly nor firmly. "You are, a little." He gazed at her intently. "You don't like this situation, do you?"

"Not very much." "You had big romantic ideas of earning a living to keep that child in the way to which his father had been accustomed. It set you back a bit when I insisted on my rights as his guardian, didn't it?" "Is this how we get to know each other?" she asked quietly. Just slightly, his lower lip jutted. "Very well. Tell me about yourself. I know that you met my son through your brother, who at that time was also interested in motor-racing. How did you hook him?" Hastily, as her lips parted, he threw out a hand. "All right, I know. You have looks and an air of breeding. We'll leave it there. What sort of marriage was it?" "Happy, in spite of ups and downs. Ewart did fairly well as a sports writer, but he hated being on what he called the wrong side of the sporting fence. We weren't well off when we married, but his wedding present to me was the best I could have had: he promised to give up racing." "The fact that he took it up again means the marriage failed." "It only means," she said abruptly, "that Ewart wasn't cut out for marriage with someone like me. I wanted to be a wife, not a campfollower." "You begged him not to race again?" "Of course I did, but he hated watching events without taking part." "He was a fool." This statement hung, on the air for a moment, while the manservant, a middle-aged Frenchman in white jacket

and black trousers, served tea and a variety of sandwiches and pastries. Then, as the man made to withdraw, Leon Verender said, "My butler, Antoine. My son's wife, Antoine." The little dark man glowed, murmured, "Madame," and bowed himself out. "Shall I pour?" Catherine asked. "Black with lemon for me. And none of that mess of eatables. The worst of being old and rich is the food you can't eat, the late hours you can't keep and the hangers-on you can't get rid of." He took his cup, watched her set the heavily chased silver teapot back on its stand and drop a domino of sugar into her own cup. "It's at least six months since I first proposed that you come out here. Why have you been so difficult?" "It's several years since you repudiated my marriage," she pointed out. "Why were you so difficult?" "I had a young woman lined up for Ewart. He had no business head and too many racing cars, but he was a Verender and I intended him to marry well. This girl was the daughter of a count. She wasn't much to look at, but she was the sort of daughter-in-law I wanted: blue blood, tradition, the lot. Ewart was always perverse, so I shouldn't really have been surprised when he wrote that he was going to marry a girl who taught a kindergarten class. I imagined some flighty, pretty little piece Who would badger him till he brought her out here, to try her tricks on me. I was quite sure he'd been married for his expectations." "And you were quite wrong."

"Maybe." His smile held more than a hint of malice. "I'll bet the news that Ewart had named me as the child's guardian in his will made you raving mad. You know why he did it, don't you?" "Yes. He wanted to be sure that Timothy could go to the best schools and a university." She gave him a direct glance. 'Td accept that from you - financial help for Timothy." "You'll have to accept more than that, my girl," he declared blandly. "You're here to stay, unless you're willing to relinquish the boy entirely." "I'd never do that, of course, not even if I were cold-blooded enough," she said steadily, quelling a sudden clamour in her veins. "You cast off your own son when he opposed your will; you'd be just as likely to do the same to a grandson." "It doesn't follow. When Ewart was young I was known as the financial wizard of the City. I had thirty directorships and was financial adviser to some of the biggest companies in Britain. I had no time for my wife, poor soul, or for Ewart. He had his first car at sixteen and drove without a licence. At twenty he was racing and winning trophies. I was half angry with him and half proud. I never had time to be his father." A pause, while he sipped the lemon tea. "Things are different now. I'm more or less retired, and I can give plenty of time to my grandson. I want him to grow up tough and self-assured; I want him to be a man who'll make his mark on the world." "And I want him to grow up happy," said Catherine, "That's all." He grimaced. '"What's happiness? A bit of education, some piffling job, a wife and three children? That's your idea, but it's not mine. Happiness is using your brain to its utmost, making people

respect you and need you, getting into a position where your opinion is the last word in some sphere or other." "Power, in fact," she commented. "I don't look too far ahead for Timothy. A sound education and all the love he needs - they'll get him through." "Pah! The boy is a reflection of your silly, womanish ideas. He even looks like you!" Catherine set down her cup with a tiny crash. "And why shouldn't he? I'm always told he's a fine-looking boy!" "He's too fine-looking, but he has the beginnings of the one. When he's hardened off..." "He's just four years old!" "... and when he's lost that dopey look…' "We've had a tiring trip from London!" "Well, that might account for it, but he's certainly too old to cuddle a toy wherever he goes. He ought to be climbing trees and breaking windows." "I'll get him to break one of these, first thing tomorrow morning!" "Not you. You look very capable at this moment of smashing the whole lot of them yourself, but you'll take care that little Timothy shows respect for the place. Timothy!" with scathing emphasis. "Who gave him that name?" She stood up quickly. "You're impossible. If you've no intention of co-operating with me, why did you bring me here?"

"Because at his age you're probably necessary to the boy, and because you happen to be my daughter-in-law, whether we like it or not. Sit down again." "I'd rather not." "Then I'll have to stand up, I suppose," he growled, "and I do hate dramatics. I didn't invite you here to row with you, but you'll have to realise from the start that I'm not some mealy-mouthed old hasbeen who's drooling at the thought of having a daughter of his own at last. I don't want a daughter. I only want a son - a real son, not a polite little boy with clean knees and curls! And remember this. By law, I've as much right to educate and take care of him as you have." "The law's an ass - but I'm not. It more or less forced me to bring Timothy here, but it can't force me to change my ideas of how to look after him. My own father died some time ago, so you're the only grandfather he has. For Timothy's sake I was rather glad to come here, because I felt he needed someone to look up to, but if you're going to make his life wretched by demanding too much of him, I'll have to do something about it." "You just remember that you're not so important in the world as Leon Verender," he said impatiently. "And you'd better reconsider those ideas of yours. I won't have a grandson of mine grow up half afraid of life. There's nothing more pitiful than a boy tied to his mother's apron-strings." "I'm not possessive," she said firmly. "You're judging Timothy on the two minutes he spent in here with you. He's just like any other little boy of four who's had to live in a flat without brothers or sisters. He's had little friends, but..."

"Just like himself, no doubt. A lot of good they'd do him! Here, he's going to run wild. He's going to learn to ride and sail a boat. He's going out on the yacht, and if he's seasick he'll darned well go out again, till he's mastered it. That's the way I grew up, and it got me all I wanted." Catherine drew a deep quivering breath. "I suppose you were bound to have it in for the woman Ewart married without your consent; that's natural in a man like you and I don't mind it. But don't think you can turn Timothy into a bone of contention. He has a sunny disposition and he's sensitive; I won't have him deliberately hurt." "And I won't have him coddled," said Leon Verender. "You're here as a member of the family; there's a place for you if you care to take it. The boy is half yours and half mine. You make a good job of your part and leave my part to me." "It isn't possible to divide his life. You must know that." "We'll see." He struck a bell. "You'll want to unpack and familiarise yourself with the house. You'll have your own maid and your own car. You can open accounts at the fashion houses in Nice - all the big people are represented there - and you can entertain your friends here whenever you wish. I consider both you and Timothy my responsibility." The door opened and he said, "Antoine, call one of the maids and tell her to show my daughterin-law to her suite. Come down to this room at seven, Catherine. We dine at a quarter to eight." He was gone, and Catherine was left trembling a little and more angry than she had been for a long time. Somehow, she smiled at the maid who appeared, and followed her from the room. They crossed the corridor with the three archways to the hall on the right

and mounted a wide marble staircase Which led up to a large carpeted upper hall. "This way, madame," said the maid, as she turned along a spacious passage that was panelled in the same silver-grey as the hall. "Monsieur instructed us to prepare this suite at the end. It is the most private." "Thank you." Catherine entered a vast bedroom and paused, while the maid discreetly moved ahead, towards the case she had been unpacking. Uncertainly, Catherine looked about her. The whole suite was as huge and beautifully furnished as the bridal suite in the most luxurious hotel. Leon Verender must be more fabulously rich than even Ewart had realised. "Where is the little boy?" Catherine asked. The maid, an apple-cheeked woman of about thirty-five, smiled cheerfully. "His rooms are in the other corridor, madame. You wish me to show you?" "Please." Timothy was almost the whole house away, in rooms as large as Catherine's but furnished in mahogany and flowered linen. As Catherine entered the room Michael Dean levered himself up from the floor and sighed in his relief. "I've been wondering about you. How did you get on?" "I'm still whole." She looked through into the other room, where modern furniture and bookshelves were being inspected by a

sleepy Timothy. Quietly, she asked, "Did Mr. Verender make a point of placing us far apart?" "I don't know. Thought it a bit rum myself. He had these rooms refurnished especially for the youngster." "Who sleeps next door?" "No one. They're guest rooms, both sides." She hesitated, made a decision. "Your French is better than mine. Will you go along to the maid in my room and ask her to bring my things to the room next door? And don't say anything to Mr. Verender. I'll tell him myself." "I'll say you will - I'm not chasing disaster! And take my tip. Let him have his own way for a bit." She smiled faintly. "You're afraid of him, and that's his trouble too many people have been afraid of him. Gosh, I'm tired. Did you give Timothy some tea?" "He didn't eat much." "Good. I'll have his supper served up here. Can you do that for me, too? Order a three-and-a-half-minute egg, bread and butter, an apple and a glass of cold milk ... for a quarter to six. Thanks, Mr Dean." '"You'd better make it Michael. Looks as though you're going to need me, and I only do favours for people who call me Michael." He gave his pleasant grin. "Well, so long. Shan't see you again till tomorrow." "Don't you live here?"

"Not in the house. There are a couple of guest cottages up the garden and I have one of them. I knock off at five and come on duty again at eight-thirty." "Sorry to have kept you over time. Thanks for looking after Timothy." Alone in the suite with Timothy, Catherine relaxed slightly. She looked into the wardrobe and cupboard, saw that the child's things had been unpacked and neatly put away. The suitcases had been removed, the bed-cover folded and placed on a chair and a small suit of pyjamas laid on the pillow. Thankfully, she drew a bath and got him into it. He was so bemused by the yellow and turquoise bathroom that he forgot his floating toys, which was just as well. Catherine towelled his slim little body, laid her cheek for an instant against the silky skin of his shoulder before letting him put on his pyjamas himself. "Are we really going to live here?" he asked. "Yes, and you're going to love it. Tomorrow I'll take you down to look at the sea." "And play on the beach?" "Mmmm, and paddle your toes. You'll get lovely and brown and you'll learn to swim." "I don't want to swim." "All right, my pet. You can sit on the beach while Mummy swims." That wasn't right, either, but Timothy's frown soon disappeared. He couldn't bother with tomorrow yet. His supper arrived and he

did fairly well. Then she told him his favourite story till he slipped down on to the pillow with his eyes closed. "You haven't said your prayers," she whispered. Timothy didn't hear. She bent and kissed his forehead, gazed down for a moment at the soft light shining over the golden aureole of his hair, switched off the lamp and went quietly from the room, leaving the door open about six inches. The room to the right of Timothy's, she found had been quickly prepared for her, and the maid was still there, hanging away the last of Catherine's clothes. "I'm sorry to have given you all this trouble," she said. "It's only because it's my first day." "It's no trouble, I assure you, madame. Madame Brulard, the housekeeper - she told Monsieur that you would wish to sleep close to the little one, but Monsieur," an expressive shrug, "he has his way. But not for long, it seems!" "Perhaps he doesn't know much about children. What do I call you?" "Louise. If madame wishes for anything the bell near the bed will call me. Shall I fill the bath?" "No, I'll do it, thanks." Louise went off, and Catherine took off her Jacket and ran her fingers over the neat fold of hair at the back of her head. She felt worn, and no wonder. She had known this would be a difficult day and had prepared herself for it, but the trouble was her conception

of the situation had been rather different from the reality it had turned out to be. She had seen photographs of Leon Verender, most of them the image of a magnate who smiled diplomatically at business conferences, and her mind had created the man behind the smile. Hard, egotistical, successful and something of a cynic which he was. What she hadn't bargained for was utter ruthlessness in his private life. A good many men had cast off their sons and been sorry about it afterwards; but not Leon Verender. Everything he did was right, for ever. She would probably never know whether his sorrow over Ewart's death had been deep and painful. What she did know was that the knowledge of Timothy's existence and his own role as the child's guardian had set him a new ambition. He'd done everything, except rear a son. And that was an omission his own particular providence was about to put right. So he thought. Legally, she couldn't fight the man; in any case, one would have to be driven to desperation before dragging one's own child through the courts. Which left the matter clear-cut; somehow she had to find a basis of co-operation with the old ramrod. Catherine took a long time over her bath and getting into a primrose cotton dress, and while she soaped and dried and powdered and dressed she thought only lightly about the problem. It was as she made up her face and looked into her own wide eyes that she knew again the impact of loneliness, the sudden realisation that Timothy had no one's love but her own, and that she had no one to whom she could turn for advice and encouragement. Here, with Ewart's father, she was more alone than she had been in London, looking after Timothy and filling in at the nursery school. She had had plans; she would teach full-time as soon as Timothy was five and could attend the same school. Mr. Verender's money, if he continued to be generous, could be set aside for Timothy's

education. And his godfather, Hugh Manning, would eventually have been free to guide Timothy as only a man could; it was too bad that Hugh had been transferred to the Far East. Still, there was no getting away from Ewart's wish that his father should be a guardian of the child. She understood how he had felt, poor sweet; despising himself for breaking his promise and returning to the track, apprehensive that he might have lost his touch, and determined that Leon Verender should be financially responsible, at least, if the worst happened. Being Ewart, he had no doubt patted himself on the back for such selfless thinking, and gained a terrific fillip from the thought that nothing bad ever happened to the lucky Verenders. She paused, lipstick in hand, and thought of the early days of her marriage which had been so gay and carefree. Then Timothy, and a subtle change in the atmosphere. Less laughter, less of Ewart because he'd travelled alone to watch and report on sporting events; and less money. When he had returned to motor-racing Catherine had felt that nothing worse could happen to her. And then he was gone, and she had had to face the stark fact of never seeing him again, of Timothy's increasing helplessness without a father. For two months she had felt crippled, and fought against it. Then the battle of letters with the lawyer had begun, and her spirit had revived. Who did he think he was this Leon Verender? Well, that was something she now knew. He thought himself a monarch among men, and had decided to mould his grandson after his own likeness. Catherine's eyes flashed in the mirror. Over my dead body, she decided flatly. But it was a calm and poised young woman who went downstairs at seven-twenty. It was dusk, and the several lamps in the hall lent a soft radiance to the gleaming surfaces of tables and tiles. She

hesitated in an archway, to recall where the small salon lay, and at that moment the main door opened and a man came in. That's odd, she thought. I've now met him on both sides of the door and we've never even been introduced. He was in a dinner jacket now, had come in as though he were very familiar with the house, and turned to cross the hall. Turned and lifted his head from its thoughtful slant, and seen her outlined by soft light in the archway. Slender in the primrose yellow, the light reddish hair immaculate, her hands together in front of her as she debated whether the door were in the hall or the corridor. He bowed. "Good evening. I believe you are the belle-fille of Monsieur Verender. I am Philippe Sellier." "A doctor, so I was told by Mr. Dean." "That is so. I am enchanted to know you, madame." He sounded formal, almost absentminded, but as she came nearer he gave her the Frenchman's comprehensive glance. "May I escort you to the salon?" "I wish you would. I had tea there, but I can't remember where it is." His smile showed the edge of white teeth. "Yet I would say that your memory is normally sound -1 judge merely by the intelligent eyes. Perhaps you were under some emotional stress this afternoon?" "I did get a little heated." As they began to move she gave him a quick sideways look. "Are you a friend of Mr. Verender?" "Yes, I have known Leon for some years."

"You've probably heard about Timothy and me, then." "Yes, I have heard." He didn't give much away, this Frenchman, but She had the uneasy conviction that he had already weighed her up and formed a conclusion. She estimated him to be thirty- seven or eight and wondered if he was married. There wasn't time to go further than that before he had opened a door and led her into the small salon. Leon Verender was already there, with a whisky glass in one hand and a company prospectus in the other. He dropped the prospectus on to the table, gave Catherine a brief glance from tinder the heavy brows. "I told you seven o'clock, young woman." "Yes, I know," she said equably, and no more. "You two have met, I see. What do you drink?" "May I have a dry sherry, please?" "Your usual, Philippe? Hope you didn't have to put off someone else to come here this evening." His shoulders lifted. "I was asked to join some people at the Casino, but there was no definite invitation. I was most happy to come here, though I cannot stay late, I am sorry to say." "Well, never mind. We three shall be alone for dinner, but there'll be others here for bridge later on. Do you play bridge, Catherine?" "No, Mr. Verender."

"You'd better learn. Everyone here plays bridge." "It doesn't attract me very much, but I don't mind trying." "That's generous of you! That's how young people are today, Philippe. They please themselves over everything, and when they're willing to try something sensible it's only to keep the peace. Drink all right?" "Perfect, mon ami." He took another pull at it, leaned back in his chair and smiled. "You have a very lovely daughter-in-law, Leon. I congratulate you." "She's not so lovely in a tantrum. Anger is out of place in a woman - it makes her ugly." "Some women," the doctor agreed. "Not, I think, the woman of Dresden features and camellia skin. However, you have seen the anger of Madame your daughter-in-law, and I have not. Nor wish to invoke it," he ended, with a slight bow towards Catherine. "Madame my daughter-in-law fiddlesticks!" Leon Verender waved his cigar. "For better or worse she belongs here now, and she's Catherine to everyone but the servants. You'll be her doctor, Philippe - not that she looks as if she needs one - but she'll probably have you hopping after the child at least once a week. Wait till you see that boy!" The doctor said pleasantly, "I glimpsed the child this afternoon. He looks well." "He looks a mother's pet. He carries a toy animal that she probably washes and disinfects every night."

"What did you play with when you were four?" Catherine asked mildly. "Balance sheets?" Philippe Sellier smiled and lifted a pacifying hand. "It is normal for a child to make a certain toy his constant companion, Leon. When the time comes he will break his own childish habits. If I may say so, madame, you look far too young to be the mother of such a boy." "I'm twenty-six, and feel every day of it." "You'll marry again," said the older man bluntly. "Unless you find it such a soft billet here that single life will suit you better." A gleam in the keen blue eyes. "How do you like your suite?" "It's a very beautiful suite," she said evenly, "but I'm afraid I've moved out into a guest room next to Timothy's." "You've what!" He turned furiously towards the doctor. "You hear that? The best suite in the house isn't good enough for her. She walks out and selects a suite of her own!" Catherine's fingers were tight about her glass. "Please try to understand, Mr. Verender. Timothy hasn't been used to ,. "And stop calling me Mr. Verender!" Leon's fist came down with a thud on the arm of his chair. "Anyone would think you still regard yourself as Catherine Harvey, or whatever you were before marriage. You have the same name as I, and I'm not going to have you treat me in my own house as if it's a name you're not proud of." "What else can I call you?"

The doctor intervened, smoothly. "Why not the French Papa? It is different from the English. You do not care for it?" "This is my first day here," said Catherine. 'Tm afraid Papa would stick in my throat a little." "You'll call me Leon, like everyone else," stated the older man. "And tomorrow you'll go back to the suite I chose for you." "Very well. So long as you move Timothy into the room next door." "He'll stay where he is." Catherine's drink was tipping perilously; she had to set it down on a chairside table before she spoke. "I don't think you understand how things have been with Timothy and me. We had a very small flat, and his bedroom was hardly more than a cubby-hole next to mine. He's been used to knowing I'm right next door. He doesn't often wake up, but if he wanted anything in the night he had only to call out..." "And you rushed to get it for him!" "Not always. Sometimes I'd tell him to turn on his side and go to sleep, and that's what he'd do. Here, he has a very large room in a strange house, which is enough of a change for the moment." "That is true, you know, Leon," said the doctor reasoningly. "These changes you intend to make in the child's life cannot be sudden. For the present it is enough that he get to know the house and garden, and perhaps the beach. And yourself, of course." The older man frowned, but there for a while the matter rested. They went into a large, beautifully appointed dining- room, ate

hors d'oeuvres, chicken patties, escalopes of veal and salad with Brie and fruit to follow, and drank an excellent wine. Leon Verender obviously enjoyed his way of living. He liked good food well served, though not much of it, fine wines, good conversation. He and the doctor had much more in common than Catherine would have thought. Both were connoisseurs of objets d'art and curios from far places; both revelled in the history of the Pontrieux district and were keen critics of the arts practised on the Cote d'Azur. Philippe Sellier was probably a good doctor too, thought Catherine. Not married, it seemed, and he gave the impression of enjoying his bachelor state. He was expert at keeping women just beyond the barrier; no doubt about that. He'd probably perfected that cool, courteous, clinical manner for feminine bedsides and you couldn't blame him even if it was a bit irksome when served up to a perfect stranger who had no intention of becoming his patient. After coffee in the salon, Catherine asked if the men would excuse her; she had had a long day. The older man nodded and the doctor rose to open the door for her. She went along the corridor, meaning to go up to her room, but as she passed that splendid arched opening into the hall she had to glance through, and she saw that the door stood open, with the night beyond. On an impulse, she went out on to the terrace and walked some yards in its dimness before halting to stare out across the patio into the starlit garden. The air was strange; warm and soft, scented with magnolia and alive with the shrill ticking of small insects. The stars were brilliant against a black velvet sky and she fancied she could hear surf whispering lazily over a distant beach. Arriving this afternoon in the sunshine, she had noticed so little that now the whole place was dark and lush and alien, with a peculiar magic of its own. Cote

d'Azur ... she had thought of it as beautiful, sophisticated and overdone. No doubt it was. But here at the magnificent Villa Chaussy she would come to know the inside life of it all, the marrow-filled backbone as it were, of the most opulent and luscious stretch of the Mediterranean coast. A car came up the drive, and instinctively Catherine drew back, so that its beams could not pick her out. It braked, and two men and a woman got out and came towards the house. At the same moment Dr. Sellier appeared on the terrace. "Not leaving, are you?" said an oldish, English voice. "I wanted to see you about that shoulder of mine, Philippe." "Tomorrow, my friend - unless you are in pain?" "No more than usual." Then Dr. Sellier bent over the woman's hand. "Lucille! How good to see you back. Leon has been missing you this week, I think. Go in. I will meet you all tomorrow." The three guests disappeared into the house. Philippe Sellier was about to descend the steps when the primrose dress caught his glance and he drew back. Unhesitatingly, he came along the terrace, and he spoke as he reached her. "You were not tired, after all? Bored, perhaps?" "No. I did mean to go to bed, but the night looked inviting through the front door. This ... this feeling in the air is very strange to me." "I have heard others from England say the same; you will become accustomed to it. I hope you will settle happily at the Villa Chaussy."

"I hope so too." She looked up at him, briefly. "I have to thank you for smoothing things a little before dinner, though I did have the feeling that you weren't really on my side. You probably helped because Fm a stranger and a woman, but I'm grateful just the same." "As you say, I am not on your side. Pas du tout. I have known and respected Leon for several years, and can see no reason why your coming here should upset him." "Are you reproving me, monsieur?" "Perhaps." He gave her a sharp whimsical smile. "You are young and Leon is well over sixty. No doubt you despise a man who neglects his family, but taking the long view, what is neglect of a wife and son compared with the industries which have grown big and prosperous through his knowledge, the employment of thousands more workers? Wise statesmen, industrialists, financiers - it is a price they are forced to pay, this neglect of the family." "I accepted that. I'm only concerned with the present." She gave him another fleeting glance. "Did you really prefer to come here, rather than go to the Casino?" The practised, aloof smile did not alter. "It happened that I was in no mood for the Casino." "And you have a late call to make?" "No. My sister has friends with her who will leave at eleven. She does not care to be alone in the house so late." He paused. "Perhaps when you are more used to Pontrieux you will call and have tea with my sister. Yvette goes out seldom, but she has a lively interest in English literature, and other things."

"Is she ailing in some way?" "No," he said abruptly. She thought he would give a stiff bow and depart, but though he seemed on the point of it, he remained there, looking out at the dark shapes of shrubs and trees. "What do you hope for yourself from these new circumstances into which you are now plunged?" he queried. "Once you are adapted to this household what then?" "I haven't thought about it deeply yet. Timothy's childhood is much more important." "I disagree - your future is as important as the child's. You did not contradict Leon when he said you would marry again." She smiled. "I shall save my contradiction for the more vital moments. If I appear to disagree with Mr. Verender on only one subject my opinion should carry more weight, Don't you think so?" "You are wiser than most young women of your age, but also, I think, a little more foolishly brave." He allowed fully thirty seconds to elapse before ending, coolly, "You will certainly find admirers here, but you would do well to use discretion when choosing an escort." She gave a small English shrug. "I didn't come here for social life, monsieur, but thank you for the advice." The hint of mockery slipped back into his voice. "It was my pleasure - one which no doubt will be repeated, for I am afraid there is a little rashness alongside the strength in your character.

You are tired and should have been in your bed an hour ago. I wish you bonne nuit." It was not until after Catherine had peeped in at the sleeping Timothy and closed herself into her own bedroom that she realised how lamb like had been her obedience to Philippe Sellier. He had walked her firmly to the door, bowed and watched her cross the hall before going to his car and driving away. She undressed, made sure her windows were wide open, slid between the yielding coolness of the sheets and switched off the bed-light. Darkness did not shut out the strange atmosphere; in some ways it became exaggerated. Night insects and perfumes, the sound of a car climbing the gradient beyond the gates, that distant murmur which she thought was the sea. This was her home now, and she must try to fit into it. Leon Verender, that strong, antagonistic figure who had stood in the background of her life for five years, had now become a main part of her universe. Somehow she had to stand between his ambition for Timothy and the cheerful, unsuspecting little boy she loved more than anyone in the world. It was going to be hazardous; Catherine was sure of that. Michael Dean would not be able to help her very much. He was easy-going, fond of good times and admittedly scared of his employer. One could talk to him, get information from him, but to lean upon he'd be a bending reed. And Philippe Sellier? Well, he was French, and therefore to an English woman a little unpredictable. In any case, there was that shatterproof glass wall he had erected between himself and women; it had existed for a long time, she felt, because he was a doctor and aware, to some degree, of his own charm. A predatory

woman would be nowhere at all with Dr Sellier; a shy one would remain for ever misted. In the darkness, Catherine's fingers moved over her cheek, Dresden features and camellia skin, he'd said, rather matter-offactly, adding that he had no wish to see her angry. She had a feeling that he was half friend, half enemy. Catherine slipped her hand under the back of her head and, smiling vexedly, composed herself for sleep.

CHAPTER TWO FOR more than a week life at the Villa Chaussy was calm and quiet. Catherine felt she had armed herself against something that wasn't going to happen after all, for Leon Verender, when she saw him each night at dinner, was polite and preoccupied, and only once, when she and Timothy met him on the staircase, did he speak to the little boy. "How are you liking it here?" he'd demanded, without preamble. Timothy had given him the big blue stare. "It's nice," he'd answered artlessly. "I've been paddling every day and this morning I caught a shrimp. I'll show it to you if you like." "One of these days you'll dive deep and find an octopus. When you do, I'd like to see it." "Octopuses are awful big." "You'll be big yourself when it happens. Can you swim yet?" "Mummy's teaching me. I can do one stroke." Leon Verender did not smile. "When she's got you used to the water we'll have a man on the job. He'll get you swimming in no time. Where are you going now?" "Upstairs for my rest." "A rest - at one-fifteen?" Catherine, who had purposely kept silent, now put in smoothly, "Timothy's had an energetic morning and just eaten his lunch. After he's rested for an hour he'll play outdoors."

Leon Verender had not answered this. He had directed a long, comprehensive glance at Timothy, apparently decided that the small boy in khaki shorts and white open-necked shirt was a very slight improvement on the neat child who had arrived from England, and left it at that. He had passed on down the stairs. For Catherine, those first eight or nine days at Pontrieux were the laziest she had ever known. Each morning she took Timothy, by a charming cliff path that wound downwards among bushy palms and dwarf cedars, aloes and cacti, to the long stretch of beach that was held in a rocky cup, where inlets and caves permitted shelter from the heat of the sun, They bathed, made sand castles and stretched themselves out happily side by side and told each other stories. Timothy's stories had scrappy beginnings and no ends, and it was rarely that he bothered to remember more than a few words as he went along. His "hero" was always a dog or a cat, which showed that he'd love to have one of either for a pet. Pets hadn't been allowed at the flat, and Catherine doubted whether Leon Verender would take kindly to having a dog in his treasurehouse. In the afternoons Timothy played in the garden while Catherine strolled there or sat with some sewing. At four- thirty tea would be carried out to her, and for half an hour Catherine would wallow in a kind of guilty pleasure. During those days she could imagine nothing more enjoyable than sitting alone under a tree, reading a little, drinking two cups of tea and eating a couple of featherlight fancies, while Timothy downed a glass of milk and a cake and played on the grass with the teddy-bear, Beanie. Some time soon she must do what she could about companions for Timothy, and work out a few simple lessons too. But not till she had been here for two weeks. This was a holiday she'd needed, her first since those rather unreal six days of honeymoon. There had been happy times, but no holidays lasting longer than a week-end;

the money hadn't run to it. Then, she had felt it all very keenly for Timothy's sake, but none of it seemed to matter very much now. He had a honey-coloured tan that looked well with the thick fair hair, and already his first fear of the vast expanse of the Mediterranean had dissolved in a desire to splash in the warm buoyant water. The grounds of the Villa Chaussy had also become more familiar to Timothy than they were to the owner of the place himself. Actually, Catherine's peace did not quite last out the hoped-for two weeks. There came a day when the business meetings were over, the various directors dispersed to their homes in Paris, Amsterdam, Berne and Madrid. Leon Verender was free for a while, Michael Dean could catch up on his sleep and Madame Brulard, the plump and majestic housekeeper, could leave the kitchen entirely to the cook, who knew Leon's wants too well to need supervision. On that day, Timothy had just gone down for his afternoon nap when the maid, Louise, came to Catherine's bedroom. "Madame is requested to have lunch with Monsieur and his guests," she said, and diplomatically added, "Monsieur said I must tell you they will have lunch at exactly one- thirty." "But I've had all the lunch I want, Louise," Catherine protested. "I couldn't eat another. Will you tell Monsieur..." There was one thing the whole staff of the Villa Chaussy had in common - a strong reluctance to irritate their employer. "It would be best," said Louise, as though she were not interrupting, "if Madame were to go down and explain herself. Monsieur will no doubt understand." Knowing damned well that Monsieur never understood anything but his own viewpoint and desires.

Catherine smiled and lifted her shoulders, "All right. I'll do that. Do I know the guests?" "They are Monsieur le Docteur and Madame d'Esperez.'' "A woman at last! I'm glad." The apple-cheeked Louise retreated to the doorway and said discreetly, "Madame d'Esperez is known to be most beautiful and best-dressed woman on the Cote d'Azur." "Meaning I'd better change? Thank you for the tip, Louise. I shan't need any help, thanks." Catherine slipped out of the flowered cotton, washed quickly and put on a slim-fitting white dress. She made up a little, snapped a small jade ivy-leaf on to each ear-lobe, slipped on high-heeled white shoes and went downstairs. She had wondered a few times about Dr. Sellier; she'd had the odd conviction that something unfinished lay between them, but couldn't for the life of her think what it might be. But when she entered the small salon Leon Verender and a very smart woman in navy and pink were there alone. The woman was dark, her hair a smooth waved cap which was surmounted by a small hat of pastel pink feathers. Her face, olive-skinned with a clever pink tone over the cheekbones, was a long heart shape. The nose, architecturally Grecian, was the more perfect for the long pointed chin and the slanted dark eyes and winged brows. Catherine had never seen such a flawlessly sculptured face; it was difficult not to stare. "I've told you about Catherine, Lucille. She's one of the family now. Catherine, this is Lucille d'Esperez. She's been wanting to meet you, but this is the first day I've been free for it."

"How do you do, madame," murmured Catherine. Lucille d'Esperez did not answer in the same words. "So you are the daughter-in-law," she said in soft, foreign tones. "You and I have something we share; we are widows. But that is where it ends, I think!" Even that one thing, Catherine thought, could hardly be called something they had in common. Lucille d'Esperez could have been any age from thirty to forty; she had the distinguished, suave look of a woman who had moved among the princes and counts and money-barons of the Riviera for so long that her previous life had become entirely obscured and forgotten. Catherine was sure that Monsieur d'Esperez had left no imprint upon this self-possessed, narrow-eyed beauty. "Would you like a drink?" asked Leon, in tones which conveyed that Catherine was late and a drink would postpone lunch still further. "No, thank you." On the point of mentioning that she'd already eaten, Catherine hesitated; she didn't know why. Instead she asked, politely, "Do you live in Pontrieux, madame?" "Unfortunately, no. I adore the whole district, but it has no hotels only small inns close to the bay. I live in a hotel at Nice." A sigh. "Very expensive, but what else can one do?" "But Nice is exciting, isn't it?" "Mon dieu, but it can also be very dull... and even a little lonely." A small rougish smile was directed towards Leon. "Particularly when one's bel ami is engrossed day after day with business. I am so glad you are free of that for a while, Leon!"

"I like it occasionally - keeps me on my toes." He looked at his thin gold wristwatch. "Shall we go in to lunch?" "But what of Philippe?" "He said he might not get here till two, that we weren't to wait for him." "It is quite astonishing that he will lunch here at all," commented Lucille. "I have never before known him to break the arrangement with his sister." "Yvette is a leech," stated Leon. "A nice woman who made a mistake some years ago and has been paying for it ever since. Trouble is, she's managed to make Philippe pay for it too." "I hardly think that," said Lucille. "If Philippe wanted a different life Yvette would not be allowed to stand in the way of it. I would say that it suits Philippe to live as he does. Yvette is as good a housekeeper as a wife would be and her demands are easy to meet. Philippe is mostly there for lunch, if his patients permit it, but for the rest he is as free as a bachelor. Yvette's friends visit her continually for tea or dinner." Lucille sent him the knowledgeable smile. "When Philippe dines at home you may be sure Marcelle Latour has been invited. That is the only match Yvette would tolerate." "Well, if Philippe likes her..." said Leon with a dismissive shrug. "Let's go into the dining-room." The luncheon table had been set near the french window, a rectangular table with Leon at one short side and Lucille at the other, while Catherine sat facing the garden with an empty chair beside her. Perhaps it was fortunate that Leon Verender was not

himself very hungry, and that Lucille d'Esperez found this a subject for comment. It allowed Catherine to murmur that she wanted just a little salad, and to pick a morsel only when one of them happened to be looking at her. Lucille said, in a voice of mild worry, "Your appetite is not so good now, Leon. I think you need a little change from this place to go somewhere simple, away from these many people you know. Could you not manage that, mon cher?" "I'm fine," he said gruffly. "You know I never eat much lunch. In any case, I'd go mad in some small out-of-the-way place. I like plenty of people round me." "That is true. It is just that I am anxious for you." Somehow Catherine couldn't see this woman being anxious over anyone but herself; but perhaps it was polite among the French to show concern about one's friends. Certainly Lucille d'Esperez was all solicitude and smiling attention for Leon Verender. Leon surprised Catherine with a sudden question. "Can the boy swim yet?" "No, but he'll come to it. He's very young." "Ah, the child," remarked Lucille, laying down her fork and turning an interested smile towards Catherine. "You are very lucky to have a small son. Where is he now?" "He's resting upstairs." "I adore children." It seemed to be her favourite verb. "I must meet this small Leon!"

"His name is Timothy." Lucille gave a small, helpless peal of laughter, allowed her accent to grow thicker. "Timossy! It is quaint, no? And you call him ... quoi?" "Just Timothy." Catherine was fairly certain that the woman had already known what Timothy was called; if Leon had told her of the child's arrival at the Villa Chaussy he had no doubt also implied that he didn't care for his name. Lucille d'Esperez was grinding her own little gilt axe at anyone's expense. "So his second name is Leon, is it not?" "No," said Catherine firmly. "He's named after his father, Ewart." Lucille raised expressive, pale, pink-tipped hands. "So the good grandpere is forgotten? That is sad, I think." Catherine might have retorted that the good grandpere had deserved to be forgotten. But momentarily, her glance met Leon's piercing blue stare and she let the comment pass. And the next second Philippe Sellier strode into the room, smiling, apologetic and shatteringly full of charm. Standing behind Catherine, he bent over the hand Lucille gave him. To Catherine he bowed slightly, before taking his seat beside her. "Continue your conversation, please. I must catch up with you." "It was nothing," said Lucille. "How is your sister, Philippe?"

"Yvette is as healthy as ever," he said calmly, as he helped himself to a steaming slice of sole and thanked the butler with a smile. "And you, Lucille? I think you grow more beautiful each time I see you. Is it not so, Leon?" "It is. Sometimes she makes me feel old." "Ah, no!" from Lucille, with a devastating look of entreaty. "You are young - and the most interesting man on the coast. I talk with many, but always in my mind I compare them with Leon, who is a vigorous and most successful genius, I would sooner talk with you than with any other man in the world!" The entreaty turned to a smile as she switched to the doctor. "Pardon, Philippe! In the social life you are like quicksilver. When one begins a conversation with you it is never certain that one may have time to end it." "That is my misfortune," he said, breaking a crisp golden roll with a small movement of the long, strong fingers. His tone altered a little, and he turned his head slightly towards Catherine. "You are well, madame?" "Very well, thank you." "'And the child?" "He's fine. The sun and sea are doing him lots of good." "In my opinion," declared Leon, "it's time the boy could swim. I learned to swim in a cold English river before I was three." "You were probably conditioned for it," said Catherine. "Timothy isn't."

The older man's lower lip jutted, characteristically. "The pool in the garden is warm and the boy's used to the place now. Dean can take him there for a lesson every day." "It isn't necessary. I'm quite a good swimmer and I can teach Timothy myself, in the sea." "You're bound to be squeamish and fearful about it, and fear is easily communicated." Catherine answered him in the mild tones she had schooled herself to use. "I'm afraid you don't know women. I detest spiders, thunderstorms and height, but you'll find that none of those things makes the least impression on Timothy, simply because I've never let him see my own fears. He'll swim, in good time." "Everything of that kind comes easier if you do it while you're young. I've got a pony picked out for him. It's being stabled at a riding school, and you can drive him out for a lesson two or three times a week. The riding master there is a crack horseman." Catherine looked quickly at the masked smile of Lucille d'Esperez, saw, from the corner of her eye, that Philippe Sellier had returned his glass of wine to the table, untasted. Quite what they were expecting of her Catherine didn't know. She was only aware of the first stirring of anger that Leon should introduce this subject in front of guests. She lifted her head. "Riding lessons are out of the question, of course. We can discuss it some other time." A steely gleam had come into Leon's eyes, "There'll be no discussion. That's my side of things, and I'll see that the arrangement is carried out. If you won't drive him to the riding school, young Dean can take him."

"Timothy's not going to the riding school," Catherine said, in flat tones which disguised a tumult within. "If you insist on knowing the reason right now..." "No reason would be good enough. I rode a pony over the South Downs when I was his age - did it every day!" Catherine paled slightly, but answered in steady tones,- "You were a phenomenon, and Timothy isn't. If you want the truth - he's afraid of horses." Leon Verender sat back in his chair and thrust one big fist on to the table with a bang. His eyes were small and brilliant, his mouth a distorted line. "Afraid of horses - a grandson of mine?" he said harshly. "I don't believe it. You've frightened him - you and your woman's cleverness in keeping your fears from him! How dare you accept such a weakness in him..." Philippe interposed, quite casually, "Shall we listen to Catherine's explanation? I am sure there is one." "Thank you, monsieur." Catherine hesitated. "I'm afraid there's not much of an explanation. Before we came here Timothy knew only the home life at the flat. To him, horses were hardly real - he never saw any. I didn't discover that he was afraid of them till I took him down to see my married brother in the country some months ago. Timothy wasn't terrified of them, just scared because they were so big. He'll get over it, but until he does there'll be no riding lessons." There was a brief silence. Then Leon Verender said heavily, "You drive him out there each day - keep at it till he likes horses. I want him riding before he's five!"

Catherine felt too shaken to answer this, and it was Lucille who spoke next. "I think you are right, Leon. A boy needs the outdoors and a man who will guide him to become strong and fearless." Philippe, having abandoned the watchful attitude, was now helping himself to chicken and salad. "I am afraid, Leon, that you're in danger of making the child more important than is good for him at 'his age. Also, there is the tendency to make him begin everything at once, which is natural, but not up to your usual standard of wisdom, mon vieux. I am sure you will agree, upon reflection, that the enthusiasm should be directed towards one thing at a time. By all means try, gradually, to familiarise the child with horses, but do it casually. If he is able to swim before he is five he will have done well." Had any other man spoken those words Leon Verender would have ignored them, but for Philippe Sellier the man felt not only a warm regard but a profound respect, even when they were in disagreement. The sharp blue glance rested a trifle vindictively upon Catherine before it moved to the dark, half-smiling doctor, who was unconcernedly making a good lunch. "You have good judgment, Philippe, and you're the best doctor I know. I want you to give the child a check-up and tell me what he's capable of, physically. And you," swinging the glance back towards Catherine, "had better co-operate. I'm as much the boy's guardian as you are." "That's one thing I'll never accept," she said, with her fingers on the edge of the table. "Will you excuse me?" Philippe turned abruptly towards her. "You cannot bear to wait till the guests have finished their lunch?" he demanded.

Imperceptibly, her tongue ran along the inside of her lips, to moisten them. "I'm sorry. I thought it would be better if I left you to enjoy it." "Soyez tranquille. Drink your wine." He turned from her and spoke to Leon. "This morning I met an old friend of yours at the hospital in Nice. He is living now at Menton, and gave me his card to pass on to you. Also, there were some visitors from Paris who knew both you and Lucille; they sent warm wishes. I must remember the names for you..." Catherine heard the conversation continuing without being aware of all that was said. She felt tightened up, and angry with all three of them. The woman Lucille d'Esperez was obviously going to lengths in order to please Leon Verender, and he was as stiffnecked and commanding as on the day Catherine had arrived. As for the doctor - what was she supposed to infer from his doubletrack behaviour? One minute he was reasoning with Leon on her behalf and the next he was giving her the aloof, caustic treatment. He sat there now, about eighteen inches away from her, rinsing the tips of his fingers in a silver bowl and drying them carelessly on his napkin; for all the world as if he hadn't reprimanded her a few minutes ago. Lucille spoke to the manservant. "Antoine, we will have coffee outside. Cognac for the messieurs and Benedictine for me. You take liqueur, Catherine?" "No, thank you." Lucille put on an "I thought not" expression and led the way to the wrought-iron upholstered chairs in the terrace. To Catherine's relief, she was able to take the chair at the end, slightly to the left of Lucille and removed by several feet from the men.

Away to the right Monsieur Brulard, the rather ancient husband of the middle-aged housekeeper, was hobbling slowly round a flower-bed and pointing out to a small thin gardener the deficiencies in his gardening. Brulard was in charge outdoors, and a wonderful job he made of it, but he was merciless towards his underlings. Even with a cracked knee joint he was on the job, planning and criticising and watching developments. Several times Catherine had wondered whether Leon Verender knew how tyrannically his head gardener ruled the eight acres of lawns and trees and flower gardens; now she decided that he had probably trained Brulard himself! Lucille was saying, "Yes, one understands, my dear Philippe. You are busy and must have this assistant. But however they may be clever, these young men, they do not inspire confidence. Me, I would refuse to consult a young doctor." "This new partner of mine is not young," Philippe answered. "He is as old as I, married, and has a child. But you are not one of my patients, Lucille, so you will not have to meet him." "You do not consider yourself young?" Lucille, adept at picking up the titbit contained in any remark, smiled knowingly. "I think you are a good age, Philippe. A man under thirty may be entertaining, even a little tender and understanding - but he is never exciting!" Philippe's shoulders lifted in an alien shrug, his mouth smiled mockingly. "Please! I am out of practice in this art, while you are for ever perfecting your skill." He consulted his watch. "I am afraid I must leave at three-fifteen, Leon." "What about coming for dinner tonight?" "It is good of you, but I should be engaged at home. We are giving a small party."

"C'est vrai?" Lucille looked sharp and eager. "You entertain so seldom, you and Yvette. I know she has many friends, but I do not remember you two entertaining together before." "It has happened, occasionally. Tonight, Yvette wishes to make some celebration for Marcelle Letour. Marcelle has had a piece of sculpture accepted for an exhibition." "So you, my poor Philippe, have to mix with the bohemians for an evening!" "They are the same as we are, au fond." "And Marcelle will be there," murmured Lucille slyly. "But of course," he answered, purposely misunderstanding her. Then he bent forward slightly, and addressed Catherine. "I promised my sister I would ask you to join her for tea this afternoon. Would you care to leave with me?" Startled, Catherine took a moment or two to adjust her thoughts. "With Timothy?" she asked. "I doubt whether the child would enjoy it, but if there is no one you would care to trust with him ..." "The maid will look after the boy," said Leon Verender flatly. "That's part of her job. Good for him, too. You go with Philippe, Catherine." She began, "I'm not sure whether..." But Philippe broke in this time, in his smoothest tones. "Leon, there is one thing you will have to accept about this daughter-in-

law of yours. She is almost mature, and does not care to take orders. It is the tone you use, my friend - not the words." "I'm not pandering to her mood," growled Leon. "Take her with you, Philippe, and on the way you might give her a lecture on the rights of a male guardian." Lucille gave a gentle laugh. "You are expecting too much, Leon. Philippe may be invulnerable where women are concerned, but he is not insensitive to his opportunities. He will not waste time on lectures. And who knows, he may admire pale skin and red hair!" Philippe smiled. "I shall have little time for lectures or anything else. I'm due to join a colleague for consultation at a quarter to four. I must leave you almost at once.'* Catherine stood up. "I'll go and see Louise - it won't take long." She walked quickly into the house, felt her head spinning slightly and a strange nervous tension in her body. She found Louise in the servants' sitting-room, gained her assurance that Timothy would be looked after, and hurriedly washed her hands, touched up her face and slicked her hair. When she returned to the terrace all three were moving along towards the steps; there they passed and she joined them. Philippe, looking tall and rather intriguing in his immaculate grey suit, made his usual adieux. Fleetingly, Catherine wondered how Lucille qualified for a touch of his lips on her wrist while she herself received a spare nod. Not that she wanted the flowery salute, she told herself swiftly; it would have made her feel an idiot. She got into the car, which was French and fairly new, Philippe slipped in beside her and with a wave of his hand they turned on to the drive and rolled down towards the gates. They swung out on to

the road and down the steep gradient towards the spires, turrets and pink roofs of the town of Pontrieux. "What do you think of our little town?" he asked. "I've only seen it like this, at a distance," she answered, glad that he had chosen a mundane subject for conversation. "It's beautifully set, with the rocky headlands at each side and the Corniche winding through it." "All the towns on the various Corniches have personality. You will get to know them very well. Have you driven here yet?" "No, there's no hurry." "You are not accustomed to driving on the right side of the road, and at certain points the Corniches have dangerous bends. For your first few drives it would be best to have a companion." "I thought of that myself. I'll ask Michael Dean to go with me." "Oh, yes. Dean." Philippe took a steep bend before adding the cool query, "No doubt you find it helpful to have the young Englishman in the house?" "He did help the first day, but I've hardly seen him since. Oh, look! Is that an old fortress?" Philippe bent forward and looked up at the headland. "That is Mont Ste. Agnes. The building was many things - a Roman fort, a monastery and later, the castle of the Pontrieux family, which died out a century ago. The town itself is founded on a Roman camp." A pause. "I thought by now you would have become more friendly with your father- in-law."

"I hoped it myself, but all he wants is his rights - not friendliness. You'd think it would be enough for him to finance Timothy's education. I'm sure that's what was intended." "By his son - your husband?" There was an odd little coldness in his voice, and Catherine had the curious conviction that she ought to be careful; she must remember that this man was really on Leon's side. So she spoke casually. "Yes. You see, we never had much money, but Ewart was keen that Timothy should be educated as he was himself. I thought we'd save for it - take out an insurance policy, perhaps, but ... well, we hadn't got round to it when Ewart went back to motorracing. So, without my knowledge, he made a will. He'd nothing to leave, but... but Timothy." There was silence between them as they dipped down into the narrow main street of the old town. The shops, Catherine decided, could not have changed much during the last hundred years. They were converted houses, some of them prettied up with paint, but most of them dark and inconvenient but somehow characteristic of the ageless background of Pontrieux. The tarmac road looked out of place between those cobbled pavements and old shops, where bakers and pharmacists, novelty-vendors, aproned cobblers and hardware merchants, waited benignly with cheroot or coffee-cup in hand for the thin flow of women with string bags who had not yet done their day's shopping. The inn was a semi-basement bistro with half a dozen shuttered windows overhead, but a few doors from it a pension made a brave show of potted palms flanking a brightly polished entrance hall. A delightful old hodge-podge of a town which tried only half-heartedly to halt the touring motorist. At the moment it was still drowsy from the lunch break. "This marriage of yours," came Philippe's voice. "Was it happy?"

She kept her head turned from him. "Yes." "I do not see how you could have been suited. You, and the kind of man who was not content unless risking his life. I know he gave up racing for your sake, but he was still that kind of man; you could not alter that." "We married because we were... in love." "Of course," a little brusquely. "But was it always enough?" "It could have been." "Are you sure of that? Some day, as Leon has said, you will marry again, and I will wager that the man you choose will not resemble Ewart Verender in any way." "I'd rather not talk about it, if you don't mind." "So there is still some grief? I apologise." He sounded a bit sharp about it, and she thought she had better wait a minute before saying anything more. But there was one thing she wanted to ask him, and after he had taken a left turn into a narrow street which climbed towards a wider thoroughfare, she said: "When you came to my rescue at lunch-time you told Leon that I was almost mature. Why almost?" His smile, as he cast her a brief glance, was a little mocking, a little tight. "A woman is mature when she has experienced everything. Much has happened to you since you were twenty, but you have not experienced everything."

"Oh." A vital pink glow came into her cheeks, but she asked in guarded tones, "Where am I lacking?" "As a woman?" A deep shrug. "You feel I know you well enough to answer that?" "You apparently know me well enough to doubt my maturity!" "So?" He lifted a thick dark brow. "I had no wish to make you angry. Perhaps I judged you merely on what I know of you. You married young - a man who had no real depths. The man who has no depths cannot pierce deeply into the life of another; therefore there is much of love you cannot know. Each of us loves as our character permits - no more and no less." "And you, monsieur," she said quite calmly, though there was an unusual sensation at the base of her throat. "Do you make it a practice never to love at all?" "Yes." He sounded crisp and cool. "Love is an inconvenient luxury that I have so far managed to do without." "Does that mean you have no intention of marrying - ever?" "No, it does not." And there, to Catherine's vexation, the discussion had to end. They had turned on to a road which had villas on one side and a cliff smothered with flowering bushes dropping away to the left. Philippe drove between bougainvillaea- covered posts and curved round a sweep of gravelled drive to pull up in front of a long and very pretty house. Perhaps, was Catherine's second thought, the Sellier house minus its climbing roses and trumpet flowers, its magnificent couple of cedars of Lebanon, its old paved patio and the very comfortable garden lounge furniture, might have been just

an ordinary pink coastal villa with curly green tiles. But someone, many years ago, had used love and care in planning the background, and now the busy doctor, Philippe, and his problematical sister Yvette, had the benefit of that planning. "It's very attractive," she said involuntarily. "You think so?" Philippe gave his home a cursory glance, "It is not nearly so magnificent as the Villa Chaussy and we have only one acre of garden - which is as well. I have little time for the garden and Yvette cares nothing at all for it. But I grant you, it is lovely. My mother planted the cedars when she was married, forty years ago." "But they're tremendous!" "On this coast, everything grows well. Come, I will find my sister and leave you with her. It becomes late." They went into a rather dim tiled hall and then into a large sittingroom furnished in the French provincial style; very pleasing, with its air of slight antique and great comfort. Philippe turned his head, as though about to summon his sister, but at that moment she came into the room behind them. " 'Allo," she said in soft, oddly provocative tones. "I heard you arrive." Quite what she had expected in Philippe's sister, Catherine could not have said. She had gathered that something had happened in the woman's life to change her outlook, that she seldom left the villa and was fond of entertaining her friends; perhaps she had hazily imagined a sad, discontented woman who clung to her brother because she had no one else, but beyond that it had been

difficult to conjecture. All Catherine was sure of at the moment was that she had not expected Yvette Sellier to look as she did. She was thin, might be about twenty-eight but looked younger. As tall as Catherine, she appeared shorter, possibly because she had the gamine look. No doubt from the age of fifteen onwards she had looked like this - dark straight hair raggedly attractive about her small pointed face, large dark eyes, almond-shaped and very expressive, a wilful mouth and a neck that looked thin in spite of the polo cut of the natural coloured knitted blouse which was neatly paired with slim-cut black jeans. Set off by black pumps and black socks, Yvette's figure looked about nineteen; her face was five to ten years older. "Ah, cherie," Philippe said. "I have brought Catherine Verender, as you wished. My sister Yvette." And barely waiting for them to greet each other: "I have to go now, but should return about fivethirty, when I will drive Catherine back to the Villa Chaussy. Have a good visit, you two." He was gone, and Yvette Sellier was darting her bright dark glance over Catherine. "I am glad you came," she said. "I am always anxious to meet the women Philippe knows socially. Shall we go outside?" There was no need to answer this, for Yvette had already walked towards the french windows and opened one of the doors. Catherine went with her, followed her to the tree- shaded patio and sank into one of the chairs. Yvette dropped into another, keeping the low tiled table between them, and leaned forward to offer the box of cigarettes which stood there. Catherine took a cigarette and used the gnome-shaped lighter, and as she blew smoke she looked at this woman who was the doctor's sister. And again she knew a

slight shock of amazement. Apart from the line of her nose and something about the way her brows grew, Yvette was totally unlike her brother. Perhaps it was the perpetual gleam in the eye, the restless movements of thin fingers, the soft probing voice that helped to set them far apart. Their natures must be completely opposed to each other. "So you are the rich Verender's daughter-in-law," said Yvette. "I thought you would be older. Philippe says you have a small son." "Yes, I have." "Yet you're not as old as I." Without bending her head she looked down at the tip of the cigarette she was holding, showing a rounded eyelid and short thick lashes. "You are very goodlooking." "You think that because I'm different. A few years ago I longed to look as you do; one has these phases." Catherine had never felt so awkward with another woman. "I seem to remember the doctor mentioning that you're interested in English literature." "I am interested in all the arts, but I like your English poets. We have many English writers and artists living on the Cote d'Azur, and most of them have been up here to see me at some time. I do not myself go visiting very much." "Do you write or paint?" She gave a short laugh. "Oh, no. I am not even a dilettante. I merely like the company of people who live, and sometimes perish, by the arts. We have quite a colony between Pontrieux and Nice." She flicked ash from her cigarette. "I asked Philippe about you. He told me you taught children in England. It was clever of you - a schoolteacher to marry a Verender."

It was a simple statement, apparently without malice or even sarcasm, but Catherine felt a slight tenseness take possession of her limbs. "No doubt your brother also told you that I'd never met Mr. Leon Verender till I came to Pontrieux. If he hadn't been appointed a co-guardian of my little boy I wouldn't have come here at all." "That attitude is too English. You have provided the old man with a grandson; why should you not - what is the expression? - cash in on it! Besides, there is the possibility that here on the Cote d'Azur you may find a rich husband." Her lips thinned, but were smiling. "I have heard it said in Nice that a true titian is snapped up at her first public appearance." "That may be so. I don't intend to make a public appearance in Nice." "You have the wrong character for your colouring." She laughed at her own joke, rested a long, enigmatically smiling glance upon Catherine, and added, "I suppose you have guessed why I wanted to inspect you at close quarters? It was to make sure that you are not Philippe's type. I have done it before when women guests have been staying at houses he has to visit. It was nothing personal." "I'm glad of that. And are you satisfied?" "Vraiment! Philippe is too much a doctor to want a woman who will be attractive to other men. And he is too much a man to marry a woman who has given the best of herself to someone else before meeting him. You excuse my frankness?" "Of course." But Catherine's jaw had tightened. She tried a change of subject. "This is an ideal spot. Old gardens can be the most restful places in the world."

The other shrugged, and seemed to sink deeper into her chair. "The son of our maid tends the garden and cuts all the flowers we need. It is seldom that I even walk out there, across the grass." "What do you find to do with yourself?" The other's expression lost its pleasantness, but she didn't move. "In the mornings I am lazy, and sometimes read. In the afternoons I have people for tea and in the evenings for dinner. I am the housekeeper here, but Martha knows our habits so well that I do not have much to do." Another of those swift, large-eyed, gleaming glances. "Have you heard anything about me?" "Almost nothing." "Not even from Lucille d'Esperez? Lucille knows all the gossip here." "She hasn't gossiped with me." "She will tell you, some time - so I may as well tell you myself, the truth. I was once engaged to be married." There was not much Catherine could answer to such a bare statement; in fact, she had never before been so lost for words with anyone. Yvette's habit of making bald pronouncements and watching their effect from under thick dark lashes was both disconcerting and annoying. "Yes, I was engaged," she said after a moment. "It was one of those understood things. We grew up together, I was told we were suited, he was told we were suited - so he proposed and we were engaged. It lasted three years - that engagement, and when I was twenty-two the marriage was arranged. And then, on the night before the wedding, I knew I could not marry Armand. Imagine!

He a young lawyer, very correct, very stupid - spending one's whole life with that face, those foolish mannerisms, that pomposity! I could not do it." "Good heavens." At last Catherine was jolted into a natural rejoinder. "What happened?" "My father was dead some years, but my mother, who wanted the match, was very much alive - she had hysteria. It was Philippe who managed it all. At first he tried to persuade me it was ridiculous to change my mind - that it was just nerves. Then he saw I was determined not to go through with it, that I found the idea of marriage with Armand revolting and unthinkable. I told him I wanted to marry for love, not for convenience. So he smoothed everything, and I was free." "And you haven't regretted it?" "Never!" The disclaimer came out too quickly, too emphatically. Yet Catherine felt sure that Yvette Sellier had never loved the man she had jilted. There was more to it. After all, it must have happened six or seven years ago; by now, she should have recovered. But she hadn't. A woman who stays close to her own home, clings to a brother, entertains hordes of people and is able to confide in a complete stranger, must be slightly neurotic, to say the least. Catherine knew a compulsion to know more, but she also felt a strong reluctance to become enbroiled with either of the Selliers. "You were very brave," she said inadequately. "At that stage most women would have gone through with it." "I said I was ill, and remained in my room for two weeks. By that time, Armand had accepted my decision."

"Your brother must have had a difficult time." "Philippe? He is strong - he can manage anything. He was good to me - no reproaches, no reminders, only a great gentleness. After Maman died there were just the two of us, and perhaps there will always be only the two of us. Only I think not." Catherine did not query the final remark. Once more she could find nothing at all to say, and it was with great relief that she saw the middle-aged maid wheel out a tea trolley. "You expect other guests for tea, mademoiselle?" the maid asked. "No, Marthe. They will all be here this evening. That will leave you free to prepare the buffet." Yvette talked of this artist and that sculptor - names Catherine and the rest of the world had never heard of. She had a light, feverish way of speaking which some people might have found amusing. She was probably exhilarating company at her own parties, and she didn't look as if she were prone to fits of depression. Quite a puzzle, Philippe's sister. After the tea things had been wheeled away an important piece of the puzzle slipped into place. Yvette, swinging her leg over the arm of the chair, asked carelessly: "Is it true that one's love for a small son is greater than the love for the husband?" Catherine hesitated. "No - they're different kinds of love." "And if one detests one's husband?" "I can't answer that one, I'm afraid."

"Because you have never detested anyone?.". Yvette gave the short laugh, pressing her lips together so that the sound was muted. "I have never really hated anyone," either. But, ma foi, I have been near it! I did not even hate my fiancé. He married someone else. Did I tell you that?" "No. No, you didn't." "Oh, yes, he married - and I did not mind at all. She was secondbest and as stupid as he." The pause that followed seemed, to Catherine, to pulse audibly. Then: "They have two children." So that was it; the simplest, most poignant explanation in the world. Catherine looked at the bright and almost serene little face of Yvette Sellier, and she wondered how such an intelligent creature could deceive herself into living a life she really found quite false. The arty haircut, the well- tailored casual clothes, the untidy posture; all spoke of a bohemianism assumed to hide something else; something which Catherine now knew to be a rather dreadful emptiness. She felt compelled to ask, "Haven't you ever wanted to marry anyone else?" "No. I want no more lawyers, and I would certainly not tie my future to that of an artist of any kind; I am of the sort to need a home of my own. I have it here. In any case," offhandedly, "I am too old now for marriage." She allowed no comment on this. "You must tell me about England. I have not been there since I was eighteen." The topic carried them through the next half-hour, and shortly after that Philippe drove up. He got out of the car and came across to them, smiling a rather set smile and waving away the suggestion that he might like some refreshment.

"You have enjoyed this afternoon?" he asked them both. "Very much," said Catherine politely. "I liked it," Yvette conceded. "She is different, this young Madame Verender. She does not talk of herself, but one gains the impression that she could tell much. Sometimes I wish I were English; it would be good to sail through troubles as though they did not exist." "We don't have that, I assure you," Catherine said. "We may pretend to, because it helps." "It helps?" queried Philippe. "Surely it is better to share the problems? Have you consulted no one at all in England about this business of coming here to live at Pontrieux?" "Not in England. A second cousin of mine, Hugh Manning, is Timothy's godfather, and I'd have gone to him if it had been possible. He's representing his firm in the Far East, so I could only write to him." Philippe's brows went together and his tones were slightly metallic. "But could he appoint no one to guide you and take care of you till the arrangement was made with Leon?" Catherine smiled deprecatingly. "The fact is, Hugh takes his relationship to Timothy rather seriously and I was afraid that if he thought we needed a man he'd give up his job. He's a bit of sobersides, really, but he'd do anything for us. So when I wrote to him I told him I was staying with my brother, and that he mustn't worry. Actually, we didn't stay long with my brother because Mother lives with him, and his wife isn't..." She broke off, but added, "I did what was best at the time, and I wrote to Hugh

several days ago, telling him that Timothy and I are now part of Mr. Verender's household on the Cote d'Azur." Philippe looked thoughtful, but made no further comment. Catherine said it had been an enjoyable afternoon, but she must go now. Yvette remained seated, looked at the other two as they stood up. "Philippe, you have not forgotten that you promised to call for Marcelle at six?" "Of course I have not forgotten. I will go there on my way back from the Villa Chaussy." "It has occurred to me that this Catherine might like to join our party tonight." "Thank you, but no," said Catherine quickly. "I have things I must do." But Yvette was looking with those provocative eyes at her brother. "Persuade her, Philippe. Perhaps she will come if you ask." "I think not," he said briefly. "We will leave you now. And Yvette - no slacks this evening, please!" She smiled poutingly. "You think I have already shocked your Marcelle sufficiently? But she likes me and I like her. So do not worry, mon grand frere. For you I will wear a dress. Au revoir, Catherine. Come to see me again." Yvette waved goodbye from her chair. To Catherine, as the car moved away, the woman looked small and elfin and quite young.

CHAPTER THREE FOR the first five minutes they drove without speaking, Catherine was smarting a little from Philippe's obvious determination that she should not attend Yvette's party. Had he mentioned that she might feel out of place among the bohemian crowd she would have minded less. But he had merely said a decisive, "I think not," and that was the end of it. He had realised, of course, that as the only man who knew Catherine Verender he would have to be her official companion for the evening, and no doubt he had other plans, Marcelle Latour, for instance. Catherine didn't mind that. Why should she? She hadn't intended to go to the party, anyway. It was merely that his abruptness had made her wince a bit; it was unlike what she knew of him. Perhaps he was regretting that she had entered his family circle; well, that was one thing they might agree upon, because she wasn't too happy about it either. The little town was busy now. The shops were all wide open and doing quite a trade, people strolled in the late golden sunshine and a few tourists were climbing Mont Ste. Agnes for the sunset view of the sea and the rocky coastline. Fishermen were putting out from the beach and the usual retinue of boys hindered the procedure and generally had a good time. Even though she felt somewhat depressed, Catherine could feel the faint air of festivity which seemed inseparable from this district as day was ending and the scented, balmy evening approached. Philippe said, at last, "I had no idea you had been so alone this last year, in England. In France, a woman placed as you were would have lived with her family, or very close to them, but it seems you were in London while your mother lived with the married brother in the country."

Catherine nodded. "My brother is a resident master at a big school in Hampshire, and my mother seems to fit in there." "And you did not?" "Not really. My brother's wife is very correct." She smiled. "You'd entirely approve of her. She does everything she should and a little over." "And you, of course, do everything your heart tells you - which is always risky. I presume that this sister-in-law of yours did not approve of Ewart Verender." "It was rather more than that, I'm afraid. They started off disliking each other - they were such completely different personalities, you see - and eventually they could hardly meet without exchanging insults. Ewart did it almost good- humouredly, because he didn't care enough about people to get heated, but Diana ... well, she simply doesn't possess a sense of humour, and the only remedy was to keep them apart. When .,. when Ewart died, Diana was very kind, but I couldn't possibly make my home there with them. There wasn't room and I wasn't really wanted. I'd have felt stifled." "But your mother?" he asked sharply. She made a small gesture with her hands. "She's sweet, but she's their kind - Bernard's and Diana's. I couldn't take her away from them. I did have lots of friends in London, and if I could have taken a job where Timothy..." She stopped, and let a shrug complete the sentence, and for a minute or two they went on in silence. They were on the road up to the villa when he said formally:

"At Leon's request I have made an appointment for the child. My usual consulting hours are from eleven till lunch- time, but tomorrow I should be free at ten-thirty. I would like you to bring him to my consulting room at that time," "He did have a check-up about six months ago." "This is routine, for Leon." "Very well." "The chauffeur will know where to take you. I will do my utmost to be there on time." And it was on that distant note, more or less, that they parted. He touched her elbow lightly as he helped her from the car, bowed coolly, waited just long enough to see her enter the hall, and drove away. To pick up Marcelle Latour, she remembered. Feeling rather low, she hesitated in that spectacular hall for a moment before passing through and up the staircase. She changed the white dress for a figured blue one before going into Timothy's bedroom. Finding the room empty, she stood and thought for a minute before going downstairs again. There was no one in the small salon, and it was too late to expect to find Michael Dean in the study. She could ring for Louise, but she felt she would rather find Timothy herself, so that she could see at once how he had been getting along without her, Catherine had seldom visited the kitchen and was not welcome there, but now she took that direction, and as she pushed open the heavy odour- and soundproof door she heard his treble tones. "And I couldn't get down, could I? He said I was a baby, but I couldn't get down - it was too far. Why did he bang away so cross, Louise?"

"Bang away, mon petit? What is that - with the feet?" "He stomped, and didn't look back. It wasn't my fault, was it, Louise? It was too high." "Un petit peau," Louise murmured equably. Then she saw Catherine and said smilingly, "Here is your maman. She will wish you to have your supper now. I will get it, madame." Catherine gave her a quick enquiring look, but the maid turned firmly towards the huge electric range and switched on a hotplate. The kitchen-maid, who stood at a work-table in the corner, began to weigh ingredients and tip them into the bowl of an electric mixer, and Catherine found she was gazing at two stiff backs. So she turned to Timothy. "Hallo, sweetie-pie. Are you hungry?" "Not much." He came round the table and slipped a hot little hand into hers. "You been a long time." "We'll go upstairs and you can have supper after you've undressed. Would you like that?" Louise said, in her non-committal voice, "Monsieur has ordered that the child must eat his supper down here, madame. Breakfast only, in the bedroom." Monsieur could jump off a cliff. Catherine said, as evenly, "We may start that tomorrow night, but not tonight. Bring the tray as soon as it's ready, will you, Louise? Come on, darling - up the wooden hills." Catherine felt a little sick as she helped Timothy undress. He looked pale and anxious, but she daren't probe so near to bedtime.

She had to piece together his afternoon from his worried little questions and remarks. "It was so high, you see," he told her. "And Grandfather .,. I mean Grandpa... he said I must call him Grandpa ..." He had wandered and she prompted him gently, "What was high, Timothy?" "The tree, of course. Did you climb trees when you were little?" "I think so, with my brother." "I was all alone." "In the garden?" He nodded. "There was Grandpa and Louise, but the climbing was all by myself. I didn't try 'cos it was a big tree and Grandpa said Louise mustn't help." What Catherine would have liked to do to Grandpa! "So you couldn't manage it," she said with a calm smile that hid a sudden, fierce heartache. "It doesn't matter a bit. You'll find it quite easy when you're bigger." "Grandpa was cross. He lifted me up into the tree and said I must come down again on my own." Catherine felt perspiration starting across her "brow. She saw big tears in Timothy's eyes, and drew him into her arms. "And when you couldn't do it, Grandpa went away, and Louise got you down? That's good." She steadied her voice. "No harm's done, chicken. I'll teach you how to climb trees myself - little ones. I'm afraid Grandpa doesn't know much about little boys - not yet. And now

let's play one of our own games, shall we? What about making some words with your bricks? And after supper we'll have one of the stories from the rabbit book. We'll pretend we're back in the flat, and Beanie shall be a bunny." "Beannie's a bunny," he chanted, but not with his usual gusto. Timothy was late to bed that night. Purposely, Catherine played with him till he was tired and giggling, and when she held him close and kissed him good night she knew that for the time being he felt secure again. It was a relief to see him snuggle down with Beanie, but inwardly she still seethed. It was seven-fifteen when she went down to the salon. In fifteen or twenty minutes someone would arrive for dinner, so she had to act at once. She crossed to the door of the study, rapped clearly. "Come in," said Leon Vender's heavy voice, but as she entered he looked at her as though he might have said other words had he known who was knocking. "Well, what can I do for you?" he asked. "I think you know why I'm here. You're well aware that you scared Timothy half to death this afternoon. Was that why you insisted on my going with the doctor - so that you could try out some of those rough tactics on the child?" "Don't be a fool if you can help it." He walked round his desk, clipped a cigar with a small silver instrument. "The boy has less pluck than a girl of his age, and that's a condition I won't tolerate in anyone belonging to me. I sent you off with the doctor because I thought it would be good for the boy to wake up and find someone else at his bedside. You're with him too much."

"That's true - he needs young companions. But I didn't come to you about that." "I know why you came." He gazed at her piercingly from under the ridge of his brow. "You regard everything from your own womanish viewpoint, but you're intelligent for all that, and should be able to see my way of looking at this thing. I'll tell you exactly what happened this afternoon." He dropped the cigar clipper into a slot on the massive inkstand, passed a hand over the grey hair at the back of his head and again gave her a long straight stare. "I saw the boy walking in the garden with the maid and strolled after them. I caught them up near a fig tree and told him to try and climb it. He didn't even move forward - just stood there looking at me with those great wide-set eyes and saying he couldn't do it. Ever had a good look at a fig tree?" he suddenly barked. "Yes, I have. I should say they're easy to climb - but that's not the point. If you'd encouraged him - helped him a little - he might have thought it fun. But your way of approaching things has made him frightened of you. To you he's always the boy or the child. You never use his name.. "I don't like it." "That makes no difference. It's his own personal possession, and you ignore it." Catherine tightened her hands at her sides and spoke as coolly as she could. "He wouldn't climb the tree, so you sat him in a branch, well above the ground. That's what happened, isn't it?" "Don't flash your eyes at me, young woman. It's a pity you haven't tried to put some of that fire of yours into the child. You know what?" with the typical jut of his lower lip and a cynical note in his

voice. "That boy was no more than five feet from the grass .,. and he cried. Sat there and cried." She drew a quick breath. "I'm not surprised. Children do cry with fright, you know. If you try anything of that kind again..." "So it's threats now, is it?" He sounded interested rather than put out. "You make a milksop of the child, and I'm to blame for not liking milksops! That's rather rich." "It's hardly fair to call a boy of four a milksop," she retorted. "You're very keen on my seeing things your way, but what about trying it the other way about? I know you haven't much imagination, but you do have vision or you wouldn't be a genius of the business world. Surely you can understand how a child who's been cooped up in a flat all his life must react to freedom, when it comes? He's cautious, and a good thing too!" Her voice shook a little. "If you'd only... helped him down from the tree, instead of striding away, as though you were disgusted. I'm not against your having some influence on his life..." "Well now, that's a concession," he said with sarcasm. "What sort of influence do you envisage, may I ask?" She looked down at the thick Chinese rug. "You could talk to him, for one thing. Action isn't everything - that's just physical, and most boys come to it in time. What he'll need more and more from now on is ordinary masculine talk from someone who cares for him. I know ifs something you've never done in your life; if you'd talked to Ewart instead of giving him every expensive toy he ever asked for, he might have grown up with a different set of values. Little boys don't particularly want ponies and little motor cars with all the gadgets, and gliders and swimming pools. They want freedom and companionship ... and whether you like my saying it

or not, they need a background of parental love. You've said you want the experience of educating a son, but I honestly don't think you can make a success of it till you love him." For nearly a minute there was complete quiet. Even the outdoor noises, caused by roosting birds and the breeze, failed to penetrate the charged atmosphere of the room. Then, suddenly, Leon Verender struck a match and set the flame to the tip of his cigar. He took his time about getting the thing lit and, disposing of the match, blew smoke from his Finnish lips and said, looking at her averted face: "You're young and emotional. I'm nearly forty years older and hard-bitten. We shall never see eye to eye about this because whatever happens we shall remain strangers. You're not only the girl my son married - you're the girl he married without my consent. You cheated me of the kind of daughter-in-law I wanted. All right - that's forgiven and almost forgotten now; it has to be. But you're still the stranger that I didn't want it in my family." She lifted her head and gazed back at him. "If you cast off Ewart and don't want me, how can you want Timothy?" He smiled narrowly, "That's shrewd of you. You get under my guard sometimes and I don't like it. In any case, you didn't let me finish. I didn't have you come here to live without thinking about it a great deal first; what I didn't reckon with was that stubbornness and pride - though I did realise from your letters to my lawyer that you'd be as difficult as a woman can be. That was why I wouldn't offer you money to relinquish the boy." He waited for retaliation, but receiving only a dark-eyed stare, he added, "I wonder why you think you know so much more about boys than I do."

"I had to study children during my training. In England, Timothy had little friends and inevitably I watched them and learned quite a bit. I know more about children than you do simply because I like them - and you don't." "When my grandson behaves like a boy," he said consideringly, "I shall like him and be proud of him." He paused. "You'll admit you came here to Pontrieux in a hostile mood, won't you?" "I had reason. I knew you were going to tolerate having me here for Timothy's sake." "And you'd always hated Ewart's father for more or less disowning him?" "I didn't hate you. You don't hate someone you can get along quite easily without." He shoved the cigar back into his mouth, drew on it hard, and took it between his fingers. "A few of the things you've said I've asked for - I know that. But I've been up against problems all my life, and I don't intend to be bested over this one. If I have to row with you every step of the way, I'll make a man of that boy!" "I don't want rows - and there needn't be any if you'll only realise that you can't train a boy by frightening him stiff. You simply have to give him time." The breath quivered in Catherine's throat, and she waited a second to get over it, before saying, "Children react best to people who love them, and they're particularly good with grandparents. My own mother ..." "I don't want to hear it," he growled. "I want that child's habits changed, his whole outlook sharpened up and made boyish. Get that hair cut off, and let him play in briefs and nothing else. I want to see him nut-brown and healthy, fighting fit. I want there to be

nothing in the physical line that he can't do quicker and better than any other boy. Because it's physical perfection that prepares a boy for mental gymnastics later on. With a grandfather like me," giving her a swordlike glance, "and a mother who may be a fool over him but can acquit herself fairly well in a battle of words, he could have a brilliant future. That's what I want for him, and what I mean to have!" On a deep sigh she said, "There's a happy medium, surely, and we can't possibly know what he'll want to do with his life till he's much older." "Maybe I shan't be here to see what he does with his life, and I certainly shan't care which career he chooses. But whether it's science or the law, medicine or finance - he has to have the right preparation for it in childhood. To be fearless in thought he has to be fearless physically while young. And that boy will never be brave while you're pampering and coddling him and getting between him and danger. I learnt to swim by being thrown into a river, and I climbed my first tree because I was intensely curious about what lay on the other side of our garden wall. When I was seven I ran away to London and somehow kept myself going for four days before I was picked up and carted home again." "You were a wonder-child, and Timothy isn't. I do my best not to spoil him in any way and since he was very small I've gone to some trouble to find companions for him; I intend to do the same here. You yourself are making it difficult for me to leave him with others here at the villa. How could I ever be sure that you wouldn't suddenly decide to toss him into the swimming pool or make him sprint till he dropped?" He shook his head disparagingly. "After his exhibition this afternoon I shan't try either. When he's used to this place I'll get

him a male tutor who'll put him through his paces outdoors as well as indoors. If you don't want it to come as a shock to him you'd better prepare him for it. Don't go yet!" as she turned abruptly towards the door. "I notice you've used hardly any money from your account, and the chauffeur tells me you've never yet driven the car I got for you. It's been run in and it's a charming model, particularly easy for a woman to handle. Not afraid of the roads here, are you?" "I haven't needed a car." "You will. The first couple of times out you can take Dean with you, if you like." "Thank you." "It's your car," he said in hard tones, "registered in your name. My chauffeur will see that it's kept in good repair and filled up. As to your dress , t . you usually look all right to me, but you can't have had much of an allowance before you came here. Go into Nice and get yourself fixed up with plenty of everything. I've had Dean telephone those fashion houses I told you about, and just by giving your name you'll get top treatment." The sharp, narrowed glance gleamed momentarily as he saw the fine bones of her face in youthful, delicate but unyielding profile. "Don't think I'm trying to buy your co-operation. Even in this short time I've come to know you better than that. But it so happens that in this part of the world I'm someone - Verender, the magnate, who owns a luxury villa and a yacht that's brought some of the best-known people in the world to Pontrieux. I also have shares in the plush hotels of the Cote, as well as an interest in several of the big departmental stores. I wouldn't mind at all," very deliberately, "if my daughter-in-law became the most envied woman of the whole Mediterranean coast. So go ahead and buy - the accounts will come to me."

On the point of voicing an automatic, "You're very kind", Catherine pulled herself up. She merely nodded to him and walked out into the salon. With a movement that was a little nervous she took a magazine from the tidy pile on a small table, sat near a lamp and began turning the pages. But she couldn't read; she felt too fed up and touchy. The man was really quite impervious. Possessions were his yardstick, and if he'd ever had any emotions they'd gone the way of any other weakness he might have detected in himself at a very early age; they had been smothered during his drive for power. Everything that belonged to him had to be in the super-class; even his daughter-in-law. Catherine was glad when the guests arrived. They were an ageing French count and his wife and a banker from Paris; typical of this house.

Yes, after eight or nine days the holiday feeling was gone. Catherine knew that now she had to plan ahead, for Timothy's immediate, future. At precisely ten-thirty next morning she entered the comfortable waiting-room which adjoined Philippe Sellier's consulting rooms. At twenty-five minutes to eleven a thin, thirtyish receptionist asked that Madame Verender and the child would please go in to see the doctor. Philippe, wearing the unfamiliar short white, coat with dark trousers, was businesslike, but gentle and talkative with Timothy. There were the routine tests, a few questions, some notes jotted on a card while Timothy dressed, a practised smile as Philippe escorted them through the waiting room to the front entrance of the small medical centre on he Boulevard Naronne.

"I will telephone my report to your father-in-law," he said distantly, as they paused in the square tiled entrance hall. The grey eyes were keen as he added, "There is nothing you particularly wish me to bear in mind when I speak to Leon?" "I'm not sure what you mean." A shrug. "You look pale this morning - but I think there is little wrong with your health. I would say there has been another séance with Leon." "That's clever of you. Thanks for the offer, but I don't think you can help me in any way - in your report about Timothy, I mean except perhaps to mention once more that Leon will have to be patient." "I will certainly do that. You go straight home now?" "No, I'm going into Nice for the first time." A cool smile. "I envy you that. I grew up knowing Nice as intimately as I know Pontrieux; it has never been new to me. There is much traffic there; you go with a chauffeur, of course?" "No, but I shall have a companion." As Philippe bowed to a starchy little woman who looked like a duchess, Catherine said, "Well, I won't keep you. Thank you for seeing us before your normal hours." Philippe bent towards the little boy. "I forgot to ask about your Beanie. How is he?" "He's better this morning, thank you," said Timothy politely. "He has been ill?"

"No, but... but he had to climb a tree yesterday." "Pauvre joujou! He was hurt?" "He cried." "Ciel! You must be most kind to him today." Philippe straightened slowly and looked at Catherine. "So?" he said in a stern, comprehending undertone. "This was forced while you were at my house yesterday? But why did you fight with Leon about it? There is not a scratch on the child." She stared at him, shocked. "You're as bad as he is!" she said in quiet fury. "You interpret everything physically, as he does. Do all men grow alike in this country? Do they all ignore the bruises inflicted on a child's mind, and care only about the health of the body? I know you're a doctor, and that..." "I also have common sense," he clipped out in alien tones, "and perhaps I have had even more experience with children than you have. The first adventure of any kind is always a terror, but the body has reserves to deal with such things. You see how the child plays there on the staircase? He is no different from others of his age. He is built to withstand the sudden frights - childhood is a succession of them. In trying to shield him you are doing him an injury!" "I won't have him meet any more dangers than necessary till he's fit to deal with them," she said quickly. "I knew a long time ago that Leon was soulless, but I did think that you understood a little." "I understand very well. You are making the child your whole life, and that is wrong - for him and for you. You are still very young." "Just now I'm not concerned for myself."

"And when the time comes that you have to think of yourself what then?' She made a complication of pulling on a glove. "I don't know what you're getting at." "I think you do," he said coldly. "There will be another man in your life; in spite of that independent outlook you have acquired you are of a kind to need a man - his love and protection. Have you thought how this man will feel about the child?" "Certainly not." "You should, mon amie. When the time comes you will think that he should love the boy because he is yours. But," with soft and deadly emphasis, "he will find it almost impossible even to tolerate a child who demands most of your affection and care. Because if you continue placing the interests of Timothy before everything else that is what will happen - he will expect and demand the first place in your affections - always." Catherine's head was still bent and the pretty curve of her mouth had compressed slightly. "I do what I feel is right," she said in low tones. "I know that," he said offhandedly, and moved towards the open door. "Au revoir." She murmured a reply and passed him, went down the three wide steps with Timothy and smiled mechanically at Michael Dean, who stood beside the open door of the primrose yellow car, bowing theatrically. As she settled herself she looked towards the doorway of the medical centre. Philippe had gone.

"What's the matter with our doctor friend?" asked Michael as he got in beside her. "He looked at me as if I were something that had crawled out of a drain." "He's not very pleased with me." She looked over her shoulder. "All right, Timothy?" "Yes. May I eat my bar of chocolate now?" "Well, don't..." She had been about to warn him, against smearing his Shirt. Darn that interfering, charming, barricaded, masterful doctor; he had no right to influence her like this. "Yes, eat it," she said. "You'll have some lemonade when we get to Nice." She drove carefully through the main boulevard of Pontrieux and out on to the Corniche. Timothy piped up, "Would you like a piece of my chocolate, Mummy?" • "No, thank you, pet." "Would you like a piece, Mr. Michael?" Michael turned and looked at him. "Never knew such a polite kid in my life. What sort of chocolate is it, youngster? All right, I'll have a bite. Daren't smoke in this mobile boudoir." "What's a ... bood-wah?" "Well, it's a place where ladies ,.. no, I guess you're a bit too young. Look out, there, don't put your mucky fingers on the leather!"

Catherine laughed suddenly. It was a relief to find someone as carefree as Michael uttering the sort of warning she had been about to administer herself. She slipped a hanky from the pocket of her short cream coat and held it over the back of the seat, felt Timothy take it and heard him settle back into the soft upholstery. "How did the medical exam go off?" asked Michael, when he had disposed of his mouthful. "Very well. Dr. Sellier did it for Leon, and will send him a report." "I don't suppose he has time to escort all his patients to the front door. You were special." Michael grinned. "He's a cool customer, isn't he? Once, when he was at the villa, I showed him a lump on my wrist. He said it was a ganglion and gave it a terrific whack with the side of his hand. For about an hour it ached like mad, but next day the thing was no more. I didn't get a bill for it." "Isn't Pontrieux rather small to have a medical centre?" "There are so many villages in the district, and many of them have no doctors, so the people come into Pontrieux. The medical centre building was a large old mansion that had been empty for some time. Philippe suggested to the other medicos that it would benefit them and the community if it was bought and transformed into consulting suites. They formed a company to foot the cost and they pay a small rental to cover upkeep. It was already established before I came to Pontrieux, but it's quite famous along the coast. Philippe has been asked to take a fashionable practice in Nice, but he won't go. He's a rum type - very sure of himself, charming, but with a layer of cold steel somewhere. Met his sister yet?" She nodded. "I had tea with her yesterday. She's not much like him."

"Bit of an enigma, I believe, and very possessive." With a deprecating gesture he added, "I only know what I hear fall from the lips of the mighty, but it seems the girl intends to cling along with Philippe for ever and ever. But she's canny; she knows darned well that her brother won't remain a bachelor all his life, so she vets all the women he meets. That's probably why she had you there yesterday." Catherine felt a warmth come up under her skin. "How could I endanger her security?" she said a little shortly. "She ought to get married herself - it's what she needs." "I believe she makes a thing of being temperamental and arty. Philippe keeps her feet on the ground and she knows it. She'd go halfway round the bend if he married someone who didn't want her about the place." "She's too sensible for that." "Maybe, but she could make herself mighty unpleasant. For her sake, everyone is hoping he'll marry Marcelle Latour." She asked casually, "She does sculpture, doesn't she - this Mademoiselle Latour? Yvette gave a party last night to celebrate Marcelle's having an item accepted for exhibition somewhere." "I believe she's clever at it, but not dedicated. She's not a local. I first heard of her about six months ago. I met the Sellier group at a carnival affair, and Marcelle was partnering Philippe. She belongs to an old Provencal family. She was left some money by an aunt, and decided to use some of it on a stay among the bohemians of the Cote d'Azur. She lives with a married couple at Beausolais never comes to Pontrieux except to see the Selliers. Yvette's made a buddy of her."

"Is she good-looking?" "In my opinion - yes. She hasn't the classic French looks. Her colouring is mid-brown and she has masses of rather untidy hair, but on her it looks good. You know the present- day French film star - full mouth, high cheekbones, and a look about the eyes that couldn't be anything but continental - that's how Marcelle Latour strikes you. But she has his air of belonging on an old family, and the money, of course, is the sort of dowry no Frenchman would sneer at. You know, Catherine, that's where we English fall flat on our faces. Our girls sail into marriage without a bean." She smiled. "They can be sure they've been married for love." "But, darn it, if you're broke love can take an awful beating." "Are you going to marry a French girl?" "Lord, no - that is, not unless she'd give up her family, and they seldom do." He went a little gloomy. "I doubt if I'll ever marry. I couldn't bear to live with a woman who was dissatisfied half the time, and that's how she'd be if I had to be the provider. I think every father should give his daughter a dress allowance for the first ten years of her marriage." "You're just talking. If you fell in love you'd be quite incensed if the girl's father questioned your ability to buy her clothes." They took another wide curve, and met a sight that made her lift her toe from the accelerator; an immense sea of flowing pink. "Good heavens, are they carnations?" "Yes, for perfume. This is the second crop - the season is nearly over. Between Menton and Hyeres they produce almost every essence you can think of - they even use mountain herbs and flowers. We're getting close now. Want me to take over?"

"Perhaps you'd better. I'd rather know the streets before I drive along them." They changed places, and moved off again. Past palatial entrances to invisible villas, through a tunnel created by umbrella pines past a cliffside hotel and down between walled gardens into the most exciting city of the Mediterranean seaboard. The endless Promenade de la Mediterranee, its palms and holiday throngs in gay and scanty dress, its edging of golden sand and the wide sweep of the azure bay - Catherine knew it was one of the most famous thoroughfares in the world. And rightly so; there was some extra magic in the warmth and joy of that lovely esplanade in Nice, with its strange and distant background panorama of mountains and capes. "I feel as if I want to walk and walk," she said breathlessly. "You've got the rest of your life for that," he said easily. "I'll take you through to the shops. Over here," waving towards a public garden, "is the Musee Massena. You must go there some time. We turn up here ... and turn again towards the Avenue de la Victoire. Anything in particular you want to get?" "Only books, this morning. I thought perhaps I could get hold of a few novelties for teaching Timothy." "You can buy anything here. What about those dress shops? You'll be a fool if you don't get all you can out of the old man." He lifted a hasty hand from the wheel. "All right, all right. I don't mean it the way it sounds. It would please him and it wouldn't harm you at all. You know, you should have a definite plan for dealing with Leon. Be submissive in every way you possibly can, so that when you do stick out for something he's brought up sharp, and has to consider it."

"It's an awfully good plan, Michael, but I doubt if I could keep to it. Could you let me off here?" "Just you?" He slowed and looked a wee bit chagrined. "Aren't you taking Little Eric with you?" "Don't call him that! As a matter of fact you're going to look after him - you're to take him to get his hair cut." She paused. "Did you have a plan of your own for 'the next hour?" "Well, I do know a girl in a travel agency back there, but I'll get the kid shorn for you. An inch off all round?" She looked critically at Timothy's soft fair hair. "Not as much as that - and don't have the style altered. It suits him as it is. You're staying with Michael, darling. He'll show you all sorts of things." They arranged to meet at that exact spot in one hour, and the yellow car slid away, leaving Catherine a little dazed by the noise and gaiety of the crowded street. For half an hour she windowgazed absorbedly, but then found her bookshop and browsed among French novels and children's books. She bought some readers and picture books, a couple of English periodicals, and soon discovered, regretfully, that it was time she returned to the spot where she had left the car. With his hair trimmed short Timothy looked sweet, but he reeked of violets. Blissfully he hung over the back of the seat between Catherine and Michael, and said: "I smell sheek. The man said so. I had lemonade, and Michael drank something that..." "That's enough from you," said Michael. "Next you'll be saying that we weren't alone when we had the drinks."

"Weren't you?" asked Catherine. "Did the travel agent let your friend out for a while?" He laughed. "No. We went to a cafe near the sea, and who should roll by in her pink auto but Lucille d'Esperez. She recognised this car and stopped. Seems she's been invited to the Villa Chaussy for lunch, and she thought we might take her back with us." Unaccountably, Catherine's heart sank a little. "Is that where we're going now - to her hotel?" "Afraid so. I didn't want her any more than you do, but she has power up at the villa." "I rather gathered that. Have they been friendly for long -she and Leon?" "A couple of years. She's angling cleverly - shouldn't be surprised if she catches the big fish." "You mean she'll marry him?" "What else do you think she wants? Our Lucille leads an expensive life and owns only the car and some jewellery that seems to be dropping away bit by bit. And why shouldn't the old boy marry again? He's not senile." "But ... but to be married for your money. Does Leon deserve that?" "I don't know, but it's what he'll get. After all, she's twenty-five years younger than he, and she looks pretty marvellous in what she can afford herself. When Leon's money provides the gilt she'll be the most talked-of woman in Nice.

"He's always had to have the best," she commented, "but his best isn't the genuine thing. He's never lived a cosy family life, never wanted people for what they are - only for a sort of added glory to himself. He's a narcissist." "I'm not quite sure what that is, but for a bankroll of a million I'd be one myself," said Michael blithely. "Actually, I think you've got him wrong. Believe it or not, there's a generous streak in the man, and he takes no one at face value. If he decides to marry Lucille it'll be because she has some fundamental thing that he needs. This is where she stays, by the way," as he pulled in outside one of the discreet hotels facing the sea. "And there she is, talking with Colonel Verlaine. As companions, they suit each other - I believe he's looking for a rich wife!" Lucille d'Esperez saw them and waved gloved fingers while she finished what she had to say to the man. Michael stood near the open car door till she gathered her purse from the near-by table made her adieux and came down to them. "This is most pleasant! I do hope you did not mind my asking Michael to call for me? Perhaps the child could sit in front, no? Then you and I will have a talk, madame. May I call you Catherine?" "Please do." The shuffle-round was accomplished, much to Timothy's delight. He stood with his nose pressed against the windscreen till Michael firmly shoved him back into his seat and started the car. Catherine spared a second to reflect that perhaps it was someone like Michael that Timothy most needed at the moment. Michael knew nothing of child psychology, had no idea, nor cared, what a fouryear old thought or experienced; he simply knew that he didn't

want someone falling across the wheel or driving his head through the windshield, so he thrust that someone safely into his seat. Most uncomplicated in all his reactions was Michael Dean. As the car gathered speed, Lucille touched the pale blue leather with long white fingers. "It is feminine, no? You like the car?" "It's a beauty." "I helped Leon to choose it, you know. He thought cream both exterior and inside would be more suitable, but I had the feeling that the pastel blue with primrose would suit your colouring, though I did say that you should be consulted." "Is it as new as that?" "Oh, yes. It was bought last week, before I had seen you. Leon mentioned your hair was red and that your skin was pale - too pale, he said! However, I decided a little colour would be better than the cream. Every rich woman in Nice has a cream car." "I'm not a rich woman." Lucille sat back in her corner, rested her slanting glance upon Catherine. "You can be, if you wish. You cannot change the fact that your son is a rich little boy." Swiftly, Catherine lifted a finger to silence the woman. Lucille laughed gently, looked momentarily towards the fair brush of hair which was all that was visible of the child in the front seat, and shrugged. "Far better to let him grow up with the knowledge," she said in her foreign tones. "At school, he will mix with the sons of the rich and

aristocratic; he must know himself to be just as they are, and he cannot know too soon." "He won't go to school for a year." "But that is absurd! We have nursery schools here just as you have them in England. A few English children attend them, and for those who live at a distance there are excellent hostels at which the children can stay from Monday till Friday. That would be an ideal arrangement for the child." "I believe the summer here is very hot," said Catherine firmly. "I shan't send Timothy to school till it's well over, and then it will be to a day school, mornings only, to begin with. In any case, I can teach him a good deal myself." "Your methods will not be those of France, and he should be taught in French alongside the English," Lucille pointed out, as if she were being very fair. "In my opinion it is a bad thing for a mother to teach her own child. It could spoil him for other teachers." "That's something I shall have to guard against." Lucille smiled. "Leon has told me you are a stubborn young woman. He is too impatient, too arrogant, to take the trouble to point out your errors of judgement, but I feel it is perhaps my duty to warn you a little. Leon has the right to decide on the boy's education; he has already discussed it with me." Catherine's nerves received a mild electric shock. "With you?" she asked, trying hard not to emphasise the pronoun. "Why should he do that? Have you had experience of educating the young, Madame d'Esperez?"

The smile chilled. "I am Leon's closest friend, his only woman friend. Also, I have knowledge of conditions here, which you have not. Leon wishes, eventually, to engage a tutor, but until he does, the boy will have to attend one of the schools in the district. I feel it would be good for him to start soon, so that he receives an early grounding in French." In spite of a determination to remain calm, Catherine felt her tension becoming more acute. She had no option but to contend with Leon, but nothing and no one could force her to give in to this woman who was not even a connection by marriage, yet, to the Verender family. The confined interior of a car, however, was no place for stating her opinion. Inadvertently, she looked straight into the rear-view mirror: she met one eye, saw it half close, warningly, and knew that Michael had overheard. "We'll talk about it some other time," she said. "It's a beautiful drive from Pontrieux to Nice, isn't it?" Lucille agreed benignly, but said no more. Timothy could be heard asking questions and gaining a grunt now and then in reply. An occasional whiff of violets was released into the back of the car to overpower the far more subtle perfume of Lucille. It was about five minutes past one when they arrived at the Villa Chaussy. Lucille did not go into the house. She sank into a chair on the patio just outside the terrace and called for Antoine. She ordered a drink and mentioned that Monsieur should be told of her arrival. Michael drove the car away, and Catherine took Timothy's hand in hers and, with a murmured excuse, went into the house. But in the hall she met Leon. In a light tropical suit, his hair immaculately brushed so that the white wings looked pronounced and distinguished, he bent his penetrating glance first upon Catherine and then upon Timothy.

"Well, and what do you think of Nice?" he asked gruffly. "Seems to be a wonderful place," Catherine said. "Car go all right?" "Beautifully." "What about you, young man - enjoy yourself?" "Yes, thank you, Grandpa." "What did you do?" "Michael took me to have my hair cut." "They left too much on. Go on upstairs. I want to speak to your mother for a minute." Timothy clip-clopped across the hall and disappeared. Leon gazed with disconcerting thoroughness at Catherine's features. He spoke deliberately. "My yacht is in Nice harbour. I'm going down there to authorise a few changes this afternoon and I'm taking the boy along - without you." Catherine drew in her lip. A little thinly she said, "Well.,, that's all right, so long as he's watched." "He'll be watched. Lucille is going with me."; "You won't make him do anything ..." "I told you Lucille will be there! She'll look out for him." That unpleasant gleam which always seemed to be hovering when he

spoke to Catherine shone from the hard blue eyes. "Philippe Sellier phoned his report after he'd seen you this morning. He's perfectly satisfied with the boy's condition and says it would be a mistake to pamper him. Do you know what I asked him?" She didn't answer, so he went on, "I asked him whether he considered your way of raising the child was the right one. You'll never guess his reply. He said it would be good for you both if you saw a good deal less of each other!" "In that," said Catherine with an effort, "I have to agree with him. Will you excuse me?" She mounted the marble staircase, went to Timothy's room and helped him to wash, after which she carried him pick-a-back to the kitchen, where he was to have lunch. Afterwards she took him upstairs for his rest, and was glad to see him close his eyes as soon as he lay down. For a long moment she looked at his sunny little face, with the brown lashes lying against the clear skin of his cheek. His mouth, still babyish in outline, was pink and healthy, and as she watched, his lips parted slightly, showing the tiny white teeth. She wanted to gather him close, chase every small fear out of his life. She moved to the door and looked back. At this distance he looked a wee bit tougher - that haircut, of course. That had been a small offering to Leon, and a lot he'd cared. He'd only gloated over another victory - Philippe's reply to his question. Philippe... Quickly, Catherine took off her jacket, washed and made up her face. She decided the cream dress would do and went downstairs just as Louise was ascending, to tell her that Monsieur was demanding that she come at once for lunch.

CHAPTER FOUR LIFE did settle at last into a sort of routine, but for Catherine the painful moments were recurrent and they always came at the same time, around six o'clock, when Leon returned with Timothy from some excursion or other. He didn't take the boy out every day, but perhaps three times a week he would say, round lunch-time: "I'm going out to see an old friend of mine who breeds horses", or "Lucille and I are taking a drive down to Cannes, to look up a few friends," or "I'm still not satisfied with the new. radio in the yacht may as well look it over again this afternoon." And each time Timothy would go along, looking a little keyed up but not daring to make a scene. Those afternoons when he was away couldn't help but be painful for Catherine, because Timothy was always reluctant to go and he inevitably came back looking tired and wanting to go to bed; it was as though he longed to sleep and forget. Yet nothing momentous seemed to happen while he was with Leon. He would certainly have told Catherine had there been more scares. But in effect all he said was, "Yes, it was nice. Tante Lucille gave me some milk and a biscuit, and Grandpa told everyone that I'm Tim Ewart Verender. Is Tim more grownup than Timothy?" She nodded. "Do you like it better? He sighed. "I don't know. I don't like horses." Once she'd casually asked him how close he'd been to the horses. He'd answered, "I didn't go near them." Which showed that he hadn't been unduly frightened, anyway. Every morning she gave him a reading lesson before the midmorning break and a writing lesson after it. Later, when they

played, she taught him to make furniture with matchboxes, and gave him pictures to fill in; he was quick with his fingers, and the dexterity games gave him self-confidence. Catherine wished his swimming would progress at the same rate, but perhaps because the sea still seemed awfully big to a small boy, he glued his feet to the sand in eighteen inches of water and told her, companionably, that he'd stay just here and be safe while she had a swim. He did try while she held him, but at the slightest slackening he would flail and sink. His reluctance in certain directions wouldn't have disturbed Catherine had she been sure he was happy. There were two little French boys he sometimes played with, on the beach, and Madame Brulard occasionally entertained him to tea in her quarters with a series of nephews and nieces. When Catherine took him for a drive to one of the coastal villages she would encourage him to make friends with children they met at cafe's or in shops, and once or twice she had experimented. Like the time when she took two of Madame Brulard's appendages along for a picnic. What a failure that had been! Timothy had afterwards confided that he much preferred talking to Beanie! Beanie did understand English. The weather grew warmer and flowers scarcer, and the umbrella pines which shaded many of the residential roads were a boon to the stroller. There was no rain, though occasionally the sky hazed over and the sirocco blew from the east. Climbing up from the beach became such an effort that Catherine began to use the car even for the short trip to sea- level. Had the swimming pool been shallower she would have given Timothy his dip right there at the villa. But at its shallowest end it was three feet deep, and when she asked Monsieur Brulard if some of the water could be let out fie almost fainted with shock. Did Madame not know that Monsieur Verender swam every morning at six o'clock? She ought to have known, of course; it was just what he would do. She got into the

habit of taking a dip herself while Timothy rested or was out with his grandfather. One afternoon she went down to the pool at two-thirty. It was too soon after lunch for a swim, but it was good to take off the brief white beach jacket and lie on the grass close to the marble edge of the pool, in the shade of a huge old evergreen oak. A hot breeze was blowing, and a dappling of muted light played over her naked back, but her head was in complete shade, and the mass of light titian hair spread over the foam rubber pillow and her crossed arms. At first she dozed, but then she began to wonder how Timothy would like the trip with his grandfather down to the Cannes observation tower. Fortunately, he liked heights, and Leon had mentioned that he proposed having tea with some English friends of his who had three children; they were older than Timothy, he'd said, and Catherine hoped the girl of the three would take the little boy in tow. She ought to stir and have her swim. Then tea and a cigarette and perhaps a talk with Michael. Lucky Michael, living way up the garden in his guest cottage. She and Ewart might have been crazily happily in such a place, but they had never progressed beyond the tiny flat. Sometimes it seemed as though they had been two people whose emotional paths had crossed accidentally; he had never developed into the man who mends the lock or fixes the rickety card table or gets the baby's glucose water. Ewart had grown up among servants and had gone on living that way, without them. Occasionally she thought that instead of her husband he should have fen a sweetheart along the way, one of her sudden passions during those magic years of being absolutely young' and carefree. They had been deliriously in love for a while, and if some vital aspect of love had been missing it hadn't mattered to her very much once Timothy was there.

A pain ran through her body, a sensation that was partly a poignant looking back, partly a wistful glance into a veiled future. And then her thoughts became stilled; she could hear footsteps on the marble tiling which ran along the side of the blue pool and curved out here and there to accommodate loungers and deck chairs. Instinctively, she knew that stride, and without being aware of it she curled her fingers into fists on the cushion under her head; almost desperately, she willed him not to see her. He did, of course. She felt him come to a halt beside her, heard him say quietly, "You are not sleeping, but I will go away if you wish it." She turned over casually, and looked up into Philippe's grey eyes. They were some way away, but she could see that he had masked them; it was second nature with him - that cool dropping of a shutter between himself and any woman who was not conventionally clothed. She sat up slowly, adjusted the neck strap of the blue swim-suit. "Hallo," she said. "I suppose you came to see Leon. He's taken Timothy to Cannes and will probably be late back." "Yes, I know. He told me of his plan when I called this morning." "Oh. Was it a professional call?' "No, I had a patient near and looked in for a moment, to invite you for tea; as you were not here I came back this afternoon. There will be several other guests for tea - friends of my sister." She gestured. "I was going to have a swim. I can't ask you to wait while I dress."

"I shall be happy to wait." He extended a hand, gave her a gentle pull to her feet. "Unless you very much prefer to stay and swim alone?" She felt him drop her beach coat across her shoulders and, oddly, was vexed. She began to walk beside him, her espadrilles whispering through the cropped grass. "Not at all. How is your sister?" "Quite well. Both she and I were sorry that you could not come for dinner last Saturday. Your excuse,"' with slightly emphasised consonants, "was what you English call a little thin, no?" She watched her moving feet, "I had had a tiring day, and I did go to bed early. In any case, I'd have been in the way. I'm not an artist." "Nor I," he said in measured accents. "However, that is in the past. I promised Leon that I would introduce you to some of the younger people of Pontrieux, and since you could not come to dinner to meet them, you may now, perhaps, come for tea." She almost stopped. "Is this something else you're doing for Leon? How do you think...?" "Du calme, s'il vous plait!" Something sharp and angry flashed across his eyes and was gone, though his voice remained crisp. "Let us be frank with each other for a moment, and then I leave the subject. For Leon, I examined his grandson and made a report. In answer to an enquiry I told him what I had already told you - that the boy would benefit from being parted from you for a few hours each day. To you, only, I said that you also would benefit. It was a considered opinion which I refuse to withdraw." He paused, but held up a peremptory finger to prevent her speaking. "It is also my considered opinion that you should meet others of your own age.

Leon agrees; he may be hard and careless of the feelings of others, but he does not wish you to be lonely. Of course," with a narroweyed smile, "you can always call upon the young Englishman, Michael Dean, but I hardly think you will find him a completely satisfactory companion. It is well known in Pontrieux that he flits from one flame to another." "I know that too," she said, "and it suits me very well. Michael has no pretensions - that's why I find him so easy to talk to." She pushed back the shoulder-length hair with a hand that shook a little. "Are you sure you want me to go with you for tea? I don't want to be a duty to ... to anyone." "You are not a duty," he said in flat tones. "I will wait here on the terrace." She turned from him quickly, too quickly. The beach jacket slipped from her shoulders, and in a reflex action she swung about and down to pick it up - just as Philippe did the same. Her hair brushed across his face, a scented mass of shining silk, which she hurriedly flicked back,' "I'm sorry," she said abruptly, took the coat and went quickly into the house. When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, wearing a printed green and white silk, Philippe was standing at the edge of the patio, smoking a cigarette and looking across at the trees. He turned, saw her, impeccably dressed and with the hair brushed into its usual flawless couple of waves and the pleat, and smiled a little mockingly. "You are three women," he said, "and this one, on the whole, is the most dangerous."

"Not to you, I'm sure," she returned, as she got into his car. "I dare say a good many men envy you. It must be rather wonderful to be woman-proof." He waited until he was seated beside her before answering, "Is a man fiver proof against women? I doubt it. Outside one's family, perhaps, to some extent. But love is an insidious wrecker of manufactured barriers. Any kind of love." "Yes, that's true. When I was training as a kindergarten teacher we had a lecturer who insisted that there must always be a sort of fence between the teacher and the children. She said it was the only way to keep their respect." "And you accepted that? You?" She smiled. "In a way, yes. I'd seen it work wonders. But I'm afraid in practice I found it most difficult to fence myself off. When I first started teaching, a child had only to come into the classroom looking doleful and the fence came down with a bang that could be heard right away in the principal's office!" "After which," he said with a trace of acid, "you were faced with jealousy from the rest of the class." She nodded. "I had to change my tactics. Eventually I got the right attitude, though I still worried if a child was sullen or tearful." "Because you love children. When you love, you worry." "Even you?" she asked wonderingly, looking his way as he turned the car from the drive on to the steep road. "I can't imagine you worry - you don't look as if you ever have." "With me, I am afraid, it is not so much worry as a kind of anger."

"That's more like it." She met his glance briefly, and heard herself asking, in careful tones, "How did you feel when your sister ended her engagement on the eve of her marriage?" "So she told you of that," he said calmly. "Quite simply, I was ragingly angry. It was a long-standing engagement, the new home was furnished, we could not move in the house for wedding presents, and relatives from many parts of France were already gathered at a small hotel in Nice, which we had taken over for the occasion. But somehow I saw to it that by next morning everyone knew there would be no wedding. After that, the gifts had to be returned and the house made normal again. Naturally, the business must coincide with an outbreak of virus influenza, so that for a week or two I hardly saw my bed. However, tout passe." "What about the bridegroom? How did you handle him?" "I had no time to do more than tell him how matters stood. He was a sensible young man - he went away for the month that should have been his honeymoon and returned to his office in Cannes. Within a year he was engaged to someone else. But Yvette," he shrugged impatiently. "Instead of being sane like that, she began to wear ultra-smart jeans and ridiculous sweaters that would have been loose on an overweight fisherman. She became friendly with women who seldom combed their hair and with men who had to wear beards and jackets with hoods in order to be different from everyone else! You would be amazed at the drab sameness of this so-called artistic gang." A shrug. "At first it was for Yvette's sake. She needed an interest and I thought these people to whom she was drawn would more quickly soothe her than her own kind. But as in everything else, there are good struggling artists and bad ones,- the bad ones are parasites who will flatter and fawn in order to be sure of a good

meal two or three times a week. No doubt that sounds very cold and unfeeling to you." "No, I think you have a legitimate grouse. It's been going on for a long time, hasn't it?" "Several years, though there have been long quiet intervals, because even Yvette cannot stand these people for more than a few weeks at a time. I myself have thrown them out, occasionally." She couldn't help asking, "Doesn't your sister realise that the life she's chosen makes things difficult for you? And what of the nights when you've had a hard day and need all the sleep you can get, in case you're called out again?" , Another shrug, a small slightly cynical smile. "I am not too old to bear a few nights with scant sleep, though when I am operating early next morning I insist on a quiet house. That is when I throw out the visitors! Yvette's way of life does not disturb me for myself, but for her." "Yet you wouldn't have had her marry a man she didn't love." There was a look of worldly speculation in his face as he gazed at the road ahead and answered, "I believe Yvette herself has realised that her own effervescence needed the sobering influence of a solid young man. Perhaps not Armand, but someone like him. A few times I have invited friends of my own to the villa for a weekend, men in stable professions who found her attractive. Each time she has behaved badly; walked about the house in those abominable slacks or made up her face like a ballet dancer's. And when they had gone, she would weep for behaving like a child but explain that she'd known I was trying to match her with this or that man."

The spare phrasing did not hide from Catherine the pain and fury, and even perhaps despair, that Philippe had felt on those occasions. He wouldn't have said much to Yvette; no doubt he had merely patted her shoulder and told her it wasn't so much a match he wanted for her as a more balanced life. But a busy and popular doctor shouldn't have been burdened with the frustrations and provocativeness of a feverish and regretful sister. "She ought to travel a bit," said Catherine. "I have told her that many times. However, she is not in low spirits at the moment. She has been lively and a little impatient with the long-haired ones since Marcelle Latour came to live with these cousins of hers in Beausolais. You will meet Marcelle this afternoon." Catherine was silent. They had passed through the town and were now winding up towards the terraces of villas. They ran along a short drive and came to a halt behind a tipsylooking red bubble-car, which Philippe glanced at as though it were a dead wasp on a window-sill. With a light hand at her elbow he led her into the house, which was noisy with conversation. Today, it seemed, tea was being served in the long sitting-room. Here and there someone sat in an armchair, but at least a dozen guests had seated themselves on the floor and were casting cake crumbs over the beautiful old rugs. "The manners of some," murmured Philippe, "are, as you see, of the pig-sty. May I introduce Mademoiselle Dutoit, Madame Guerly, Messieurs Bolesky, Demaitre .., ah, and here is Marcelle!" Had his expression lightened suddenly?"Marcelle, you must meet Catherine Verender. I feel you will like each other."

Catherine spoke the conventional greeting; Marcelle replied, with a polite inclination of her head. Catherine recalled Michael Dean's description of the girl: a mass of untidy brown hair (but it looked attractively careless, not untidy), that certain look about the eyes which had become familiar to the English through the French film stars, the high cheekbones. Irregular but pleasant features, a long mouth with a full lower lip, a careful smile. And she wasn't dressed like most of the others, in a tight skirt or slacks with a thin sleeveless blouse. She wore a smart little dress in strawberry pink with a wide pink and black striped collar, and looked just about her age, twenty-five. Philippe excused himself and moved away, and Catherine felt bound to make conversation. "I heard you have a piece of sculpture on show," she said. "Congratulations. It must be very exciting." "Oh, yes." Her voice was rich and hesitant. "My English is bad, but I try very hard. I had not accomplished so much - the figurine was jolie but not good art. These people.. ." with a wave of fine long fingers, "they consider I am good enough only for the boutique! I think they are right.'* "Many more people patronise boutiques than exhibitions," Catherine said, "so you please the greater number. Today, anyone who can form the vague outline of a -figure and gouge a hole in it can call himself a serious artist." "Moi aussi," said Marcelle with a lift of her slim shoulders. "I do not like modern art." This sentence seemed to leave her high and dry for a long moment. Then she queried, "You come here only once before, no? That is why Philippe must bring you today?"

Catherine wasn't quite sure what the young Frenchwoman was getting at. Presumably, all the guests had got here under their own steam and the fact that Catherine, who lived nearest, had had to be collected was not under consideration. "Yes, I've been here only once," she replied cautiously. "I'm not sure I could have found my way here again. It was very good of the doctor to find time to bring me." "Philippe is always very good in that way," stated Marcelle, with a warm glance in his direction. "From the beginning he has told me to regard this villa as a home of sorts. Both he and Yvette have invited me to stay here, but my married cousin - with whom I live in Beausolais - says it would not be comme il faut. You see, Philippe and I..." She broke off, her colour rather high, said, "It is best that I come only as a guest. Philippe does not really admire these artistic people, and perhaps in my smock I am not so appealing either. For the present, I will continue my studies at the art school. It is, after all, the reason I left my own home in Provence, and the year is already paid for." Which was a thrifty, if not a romantic way, of looking at it. But she appeared to be a charming person and was surprisingly modest, considering that she was probably the only person in the room whose art had reached exhibition standard. As she talked, Marcelle's English improved, or Catherine became so accustomed to it that she could watch the girl. Marcelle Latour had that atmosphere of sophistication that French women seem to be born with, but there was also the practised air of beguilement, the obvious desire to please the male. Yvette joined them, and commanded the long-suffering Marthe to pour the tea ... and coffee or chocolate for those who desired them. She wore a short white skirt with a turquoise blouse that tied at the

waist, and her large bright eyes moved constantly, gazing at first one person and then another, round the room. She was smiling with that peculiar secretive expression that was a symptom of her restless personality, and quite soon she managed to separate Marcelle from Catherine and plant her securely upon Philippe. After which she turned back to Catherine. "She is a sweet thing, Marcelle. I have much affection for her, and she is so different from me that we are the best of friends." She sipped her tea, and lifted her heart-shaped face, looking sharp and elfin. "It is so seldom that one finds a woman with whom one can be friendly and uncompetitive. And Marcelle is a wise person too. She would make an excellent doctor's wife." "Yes, I think she would," said Catherine. "There is no doubt of it. Marcelle's interest in sculpture is not much more than a hobby, and I would say that such an interest is necessary when one is so close to other people's suffering. It will help her a great deal. For me, I shall be fortunate to have such a companion." "So you really think they'll marry?" "Yes, I do. Marcelle is suitable and she likes Philippe very much. And Philippe ... for some time I have noticed that he will occasionally become sharp-tempered, but he is always sweet and reasonable when Marcelle is here." She shook back the short dark hair. "You think I am selfish, do you not? You think I consider only myself! It is not true. I am most anxious that Philippe shall have a loving wife." "But it has to be Marcelle Latour?" asked Catherine lightly, as she put down her cup.

"I have never yet," pronounced Yvette with superb sangfroid, "met any other woman than Marcelle with whom I could live in peace. She knows how I feel, she is sympathetic and she is not possessive. We could have a most happy household." "It will depend on your brother, won't it? He may decide not to marry at all." "Oh, no." Yvette's smile was knowledgeable. "He has been much engrossed with his profession, but he is a man of strong feelings. Recently, I have teased him about Marcelle, and I can assure you he has not objected. It has occurred to me," with another of those direct glances which gave nothing away, "that you might help me a little." "How?" She gestured expressively, with both hands. "Philippe is invited often to the Villa Chaussy; he and the rich Verender are close friends. It would help a good deal if you would see to it that Mademoiselle Latour also is invited on those occasions." Catherine considered the other woman, very coolly. "I could suggest it to Mr. Verender, but would it really help? Why are you in such a hurry to get this matter settled?" The smile which Catherine had thought was ever-present slipped away from Yvette's lips. "Philippe is changing - not much, but enough for one who knows him as well as I do to read the signs. As a doctor he remains the gentle expert, but as a man there is sometimes the look about him of a caged leopard, and I realise that there is one part of him that I do not know. It is the part of him," with an almost offhanded impatience, "that needs a woman - his woman."

The coolness in Catherine became a chill. "I'm sure your brother can manage that side of his life without help," she said. "You can do nothing about that." "You are wrong. I can do much.' I did not bring Marcelle here to the villa merely to make Philippe aware of his needs, so that he would look elsewhere. She is the only woman I could bear to have live in this house with me, and that is why I must ask you, who are almost a stranger, to help me a little." Her lower lip trembled with the sudden angry force of her emotions. "Will you do this trifle invite Marcelle when Philippe is asked for dinner?" "I'll ... suggest it." Catherine paused. "Is that why you got me here this afternoon - to ask me this favour?" The smile was back, half petulant, half merry. "I intended to plead with you, but I also think you are an ornament to a party. See how these men look at you! Even these idiots who splash angles of paint all over a canvas and call it art are bewitched by Titian, who could paint a woman as she looks, and not as an eye and a big toe and a dish of langouste!" She laughed and was about to add more, when the telephone rang in the hall. "For Philippe, of course. You will excuse me?" Catherine nodded, turned away and placed her cup on a table. She looked cool and composed, but inwardly she was quivering from Yvette's merciless honesty. First, there had been Philippe's titbit of information - that she was to be helped, at Leon's request, to meet more young people. And now it was Yvette, confessing that Catherine Verender had been invited to her tea-party for the sole purpose of extracting a promise that Marcelle Latour should be included in any social events at the Villa Chaussy to which Philippe Sellier had been bidden. Catherine wasn't wanted here for herself, apparently. In which case, it might be as well if she got

away as quickly as possible. She only wished she had come in her own car! There was a slight commotion near the doorway. Philippe was saying firmly, "It cannot be helped, Yvette. The man would not telephone if his child were not sick, and one cannot discover the degree of seriousness in any case without seeing the patient. I must go up to St. Calare at once." "But we have made no arrangements for this evening," Yvette protested. "When will you return?" "Within an hour, I hope, and no doubt you will all still be here." He turned towards Catherine, spoke across three feet of space. "I beg that you will stay till I come." "I'm ready to go now," she said quickly. "Perhaps you could drop me off on your way to St. Calare." Yvette said fretfully, "St. Calare is inland. Someone here will take you home." But Philippe's glance at Catherine was searching, though he spoke non-committally. "If you wish to leave I can take you." Then he flashed a quick smile at Marcelle Latour. "Remain here for dinner, Marcelle - telephone your cousin, Bien?" "Bien, Philippe." Catherine said a hurried, collective goodbye and went out with him to the car. He backed from the bubble-car and they shot away past other variegated vehicles towards the road. There was only one way from the villa to the main Corniche, and he took it fast.

"They will not be expecting you at the Villa Chaussy for some time," he said. "Perhaps you would like to accompany me to St. Calare?" As she did not make an immediate reply he added, "I saw that something had upset you. I could not have you leave us early, and disturbed. Can you not tell me what has happened?" Tell him that his sister was arranging that he see more of the woman she wanted him to marry?"It wasn't important. I don't really fit in with your sister's friends." "She does not fit too well herself; most of them she despises because they use her." A pause. "You did not say whether you wish to go with me to St. Calare." Catherine only knew that if she didn't have to leave him at once she … she didn't want to. "I'd like it," she said. "I don't mind how fast you go. It's been so hot today and speed will blow away the miasma." He knew these roads so well that his driving, even at speed, was automatic. They zipped along the Corniche for about three miles, then turned off towards the mountains. In the valley, a few farms lay sweltering in the late sun, but villages perched on the hillsides looked fresh among the cypresses and palms. Along the verges the ubiquitous umbrella pines leaned lazily towards the road, and here and there a clump of Barbary fig or fleshy-leaved aloe fought with the grey-green of wild olives and the wilting emerald of almond trees. He spoke distantly. "I am sorry you came for tea with that crowd. I hoped you would find Marcelle a good companion. She is not like the others." "I did like her," she said, "and I hardly spoke to the rest."

"And you will not tell me what it was that distressed you?" "It was probably a sense of my own inadequacy." And to prevent further probing: "Did you see Mademoiselle Latour's figurine - the one that was exhibited?" From his expression he wasn't entirely put off the subject he had begun himself, but he answered casually, "Yes. It is a graceful study of a girl among reeds, intended to remind one of a swan, I think. Marcelle has talent, but no spark of genius - for which she may be most thankful." "Is that her usual kind of work?" "I think one might say it is typical. She has tried abstract subjects, but she is essentially a nice person, without pretensions; when she fails she is the first to admit it. Her studio shelves are almost empty, because she will not keep her failures. When I was there last she was working on the head of an old man, but not very seriously. She is not one of this bohemian colony. Marcelle is what you English call the marrying kind." She was probably a marvellous cook and capable of turning her studio into a cosy living-room. Catherine could see them, one each side of a candlelit table, two people speaking as a French couple spoke, with the veiled intimacy that finally develops into something more substantial. The married cousin would be below, an unseen chaperon. No profit at all in thinking along those lines; only a peculiar ache. She said, "I never liked mountains before I came to the Cote d'Azur. In England, they're never clear-cut, as they are here, and mighty dark shapes against purple clouds are a bit depressing. Do you like England?"

"Very much. To me, London is the most amusing town in the world." "More amusing than Paris? I can hardly believe that!" "But yes! Paris is the most wonderful city in the world, but not the most amusing." "I disagree. London..." "We will not argue because comparisons are foolish in this case. Over there, in the shadow of the hill, is St. Calare. This house I am to visit is behind the church. There is a newspaper in the pocket of the door. I suggest you read it while I make my call." He turned off the mountain road and along a rough track which seemed to be the main road to the village. He took a narrow lane beside a church, drove about half a mile and came to a halt in front of an old stone cottage. With a smile at Catherine, he took his bag and left her alone in the car. She didn't get out the newspaper. Instead, she watched the sun disappear behind a crag, and chickens taking their last peck of grit and corn before fluttering into their runs and springing up on to the perches. Goats were bleating somewhere, but as dusk fell their cries petered out, and the whole hillside became quiet and still. Catherine almost dozed. Philippe came suddenly. He opened the car door and sat in with her, leaving the door wide. He spoke quickly. "It is the little girl enteritis. She will be all right, but there is something else. They have a son who farms a few acres at a place called Milaise, which is about twenty-five miles away. Several days ago they heard he had had an accident - a crushed foot - and since then there has been no news. They are most worried; he is far from a doctor and

they have no means of getting to him. Besides, there was this sick child. As usual, they waited almost too long before calling me. However, I must go and see this young man, but first I will take you home." "But isn't this on your way?" He nodded. "But it will take some time - the road is no more than a cart track. I can return you to the Villa Chaussy in twenty minutes." "But you have to come back by the same road!" She turned her head towards the lights of the village, "Can't we telephone the villa?" "You will go with me?" There was an odd look in his eyes, one she couldn't decipher in the near-darkness. "Very well. I will tell these people to telephone for us." He paused. "You will not mind if we return too late for you to say good night to the child." She would mind. It would be the very first time; but there was a young man lying ill somewhere in the darkness, and she knew a compulsion to stay with Philippe as long as she could. There would never Be another time like this, and she had to grasp it. "Tell them to ask for the maid, Louise, and give her the message, and if it's not too difficult you might pass on a sort of 'Good night, Timothy'." "I will do that." He was back within two minutes, followed by an oldish man who swung a lantern and bowed his "Bonsoir, monsieur le docteur. Bonsoir, madame." He said something else that Catherine did not catch, and as the car moved away she asked Philippe to elucidate.

He said calmly, "The old one thanked you, and hoped the extra journey would not make us late home for dinner." Catherine became aware of heat rising to her cheeks, and was glad of the darkness. For several minutes she felt quite wretched and the victim of a muddle of thoughts. She shouldn't have come with Philippe; it was grasping at something that didn't belong to her, something she could never have, because Philippe was strong and individual, and more than half in love with Marcelle Latour. He didn't mind the old man's error as she did, of course; it meant little to him that Timothy had been mistaken for his own son, and Catherine for his wife. By the look of him, staring through the windshield at the last gold light of the sun on the edge of the dark sky, he was already some way away. It was a dreadful road, no more than two narrow tracks with grass between them, and a scattering of loose cobbles which beat up at the car as they spurted from beneath the wheels. Taken slowly, it would have been a nightmare, and even at speed they were jolted unmercifully. There were narrow hairpin bends, sudden gradients, a long valley with lights twinkling here and there, and then more climbing with the recurring hazard of wandering cows whenever the ground flattened out. They hardly spoke at all till he slowed at a sign which pointed to several villages, Milaise among them. After that, the difficulty was to know just which line of huge whitewashed rocks signified the smallholding they were bound for. Somehow they reached their objective. It was very dark, and Philippe flashed his lamp over the cottage before getting out of the car. Automatically, Catherine followed him, and silently she echoed his, "Mon dieu - quel disastre!"

For only half the mud and stone building still stood. The rest was a heap of wood and stone rubble over which one had to scramble in order to enter the part that still existed. "Go back to the car," Philippe ordered. "I will take a quick look and join you. The young man must have left this place." But at that moment they heard a thin babbling. Philippe started forward and flashed his torch, and in the beam Catherine saw what he saw - an unshaven youngster of no more than twenty, lying on the floor against the upright wall. His eyes were closed, his black lips moved feverishly, but his body was uncannily still. Philippe swung round. "Get back!" he exclaimed furiously. "The rest of this place could fall at any moment. I will pull him outside." "I'll help you." "Keep away," he bit out. "Go to the car; you should not even be here." "I'm staying," she said, "and I'm going to help." He took her shoulders in a grip that sent pain right down to her elbows; his jaw worked. "You will do as you are told. This is no place for you -1 can manage alone. Get away from this. Vite!" She was breathing rather fast. "I won't. Two of us can do it in half the time. Just tell me what I have to do. Philippe!" as his grip tightened. "That hurts!" "I will hurt you more if you do not obey," he said swiftly through thinned lips. "Stand clear of this place!"

He gave her a push and, taking it for granted she would do as he said, he again flicked on his light and moved into the alcove. For an undecided moment of astonishment and pain Catherine stood where he had left her. She saw him crouch over the youth and feel his pulse, bend up the left leg, so that he could examine the bloodsoaked makeshift bandage which swathed the foot. She turned and ran back to the car, brought Philippe's bag, opened it and slid forward over the stones, to place it near him. Mechanically he flipped up the inner lid and chose a hypo. Catherine eased nearer, leant over and pushed up the young man's shirt-sleeve. Philippe plunged the needle into the upper arm, gave her a brief blazing glance and said violently. "Is this not enough - that I must worry about you too? Go and sit in the car. Va-t'en!" White faced, her blue-green eyes large and clear, she gazed back at him. "I'm not Dresden china," she whispered. "You can beat me afterwards, if you like, but I'm going to help. I'll take his legs." Philippe Sellier, the suave doctor who had never been known to become even slightly ruffled in the presence of sickness or accident, was now a taut and glittering stranger. For a moment she thought he would thrust her out bodily; then, as though he could not trust himself to speak, he bent and slipped his arms under the dead weight of the youth. Catherine cradled the legs, taking care to keep the foetid, filthy bundle which was the injured foot away from contact with anything else. Slowly they moved. A huge stone toppled from the wall, then another. Something to do with the vibration of our movements, Catherine thought abstractedly. Something hit her back with paralysing force, and

Philippe must have heard the sound, for he flashed the light straight into her face. She winced. "Don't do that. I'm all right. We're nearly out." He was still too angry to speak. Their burden was set down close to the car, he opened the front door and nodded sharply that she must get in. There was that in his manner that made her obey him this time, quickly. She sat very still, looking down at her hands, while he manoeuvred the young man into the back of the car. He came beside her and set the car in motion. But they had moved scarcely a yard when a deafening crack followed by a tumble of stones signified that what was left of the cottage was not far from complete disintegration. Philippe trod hard on the accelerator. They must have covered twenty miles before Catherine found the courage to say, "He's terribly ill, isn't he?" Philippe's reply was almost without expression. "Gangrene. He will certainly lose his foot." "Wouldn't there have been neighbours somewhere near?" "Within a mile, I should say, but he is young and they would imagine him capable of looking after himself. Possibly many have passed close to that cottage recently and decided he had left it. It was no doubt derelict When he settled there." "What about the man who took the message to his parents?" "A beam had crashed, that was all. The rest has happened since then." He glanced at her, and back at the road. "You do not feel sick or faint?"

"No. Only desperately sorry for him. Will you take him straight to hospital?" "Yes." He sounded so cold and uncompromising that she said no more. She recognised the turn from the track on to the rough road down towards St. Calare, but after that they took a different route - in the direction of Nice, she thought. The road improved and soon they were on tarmac; and then he was pulling in at a service station. He got out and spoke to the owner, who probably knew him, came back and said to Catherine, as he opened her door: "I have arranged that you shall be taken straight home from here." "Can't I.. ." "No, you cannot," he said shortly. "I will arrange everything myself. I should not have taken you with me - I have never regretted anything so much." By now he was putting her into another car. She looked up at him through the open window space, saw smouldering grey eyes and a set mouth which forbade her to say anything more. In some way she had badly jolted something deep within him; he had a tight, icy look, and without another word he turned away as if he didn't want to see her again. Looking sternly ahead, he drove off. The garage owner started his own car, gave Catherine a breezy, "Ce jeune homme - peut-etre que deja il est mart!" and drove her out towards Pontrieux. It was as Catherine entered the Villa Chaussy that she looked at her watch for the first time since leaving the Sellier villa. It was five minutes to nine. Slowly, conscious of a sharp and heavy pain

in her back just below the armpit, she went up the staircase. Quietly she looked into Timothy's room, saw with dull relief that he was sleeping soundly with Beanie beside him. Feeling a little ill from reaction and the jarring pain in her back, she came softly from Timothy's room and opened the door into her own bedroom. She walked in with a weary hand over her eyes, closed the door... and only then became aware that the light was on. And that Lucille d'Esperez was comfortably and gracefully seated in the deep chair beside the richly curtained window.

CHAPTER FIVE LUCILLE was smiling, and she looked very lovely in a scarlet crepe dress. The narrow diamante buckles on her slim black shoes scintillated in the glow of the reading lamp which also cast raven lights over the silky dark hair. If she had posed herself for a colour photograph she could not have chosen a more vivid dress or a better foil than the gold curtain at the back of her silver-grey damask chair. But it was very unlikely that she was posing at this moment; she had no need or desire to impress her beauty upon Catherine. "Ah, so you have returned," she said, not moving. "It must be nearly two hours since we had word that you were detained amongst the mountains with the fascinating doctor." Curiously, she inspected the green and white print dress which had looked so springlike when Catherine had got into it this afternoon. "You have been exploring... in the dark?" "No. It's a long story. Finding you here is rather a surprise, madame." "Did you think I knew nothing about this house? I know it very well. When Leon gave a house party at Christmas time I was his guest here for two weeks." "It merely seemed a little strange to find you in my room." "I suppose that is possible." Lucille gave her another long considering glance. "I had not noticed it before, but it seems you pale-skinned redheads do not wear well in this climate. You find our heat too much?" "I'm rather tired. Did you want to see me about something?"

Lucille's smile hardened. "Not that tone, please. You are simply the daughter-in-law here, not the daughter. Yes, I have something to discuss with you." "With me?" Catherine's brain had gone slightly foggy. "I can't imagine what it could be. Won't tomorrow do?" "No, it will not. Tonight it was easy for me to come up here because Leon has two business friends with him and he was very willing for me to look in upon the child during your absence. Another night there may not be the same excuse." Her eyes, in the lamplight, were points of jet between dark lashes. "That was great luck - your position here. I have heard that you are ordering dresses and lingerie from Nice. You live here in great luxury, and I presume you are most happy to do so." "Luxury doesn't mean quite so much to me as it does to you, madame," said Catherine, with some difficulty. She was bone tired and merely to look at the woman made her feel worse. "What, exactly, do you want?" "An understanding with you," said Lucille, sliding back behind the bland smile. "Before you came, everything was clear between Leon and me. We are great friends, and it was accepted that some time..." she lifted her shoulders. "One does not have to paint it in black and white for a woman of your shrewdness. I will simply say that I had no doubts, no doubts at all." Catherine came further into the room, stepped out of her shoes, bent to pick them up and straightened painfully. "And now you do have them?" she asked. "Not because of me, surely?" "Precisely because of you," replied Lucille, without apparent rancour. "You know, I was with Leon when he heard that his son had crashed."

A shiver ran down Catherine's spine. "Were you? How did he take it?" "He said very little, but when he learned of the existence of your child and of the will naming him as guardian, the boy became the focus of his life. I did not mind that, because Leon is not the sort of man to spoil a grandson, and it would have given him a deep interest. He is a man who cannot live without tremendous interests and a degree of importance." Catherine lowered herself into the other chair, dropped the shoes again and leaned back gratefully. "It's not easy to see what you're driving at," she said. "Under the circumstances, you couldn't part Leon from his grandson, anyway. No one could. How has it affected you?" Lucille's tones became edged. "For many months we bargained with you through the lawyer. .." "We? It wasn't really anything to do with you." "Things that concern Leon also concern me. I saw some of the correspondence, and I formed an opinion of you, which I have not changed." Her nostrils slightly dilated, she added, "It was clever of you to appear uninterested in Leon's money, and really most inspired to use a proportion of it in England, just for the boy. It made Leon feel you were genuine, at least." "I'm glad of that." "You will be less pleased when you have heard all I have to say." Lucille noticed that her own hands were tight, and she relaxed them deliberately. "I am going to demand that you stop this ridiculous opposition to everything Leon suggests for the child."

Catherine's mouth was dry and she was beginning to feel empty. She really wasn't up to coping with this woman tonight; but Lucille sat there, like a sleek and watchful animal - a very beautiful animal - and it seemed that Catherine would have to deal with the situation somehow. She made a careful attempt. "I don't oppose everything. Leon takes Timothy out two or three times a week, and I don't even know what happens on those days." "You know very well," Lucille contradicted flatly. "If Leon put into practice the ideas he has for the child there would be babyish weeping and appeals to Maman! He has no wish to be harsh or to be regarded as a tyrant, but more than anything in the world he wants the boy to grow up brave and strong. At present that is an impossibility because of your resistance." Catherine had a glimmering of comprehension. "You feel that Leon is too absorbed in Timothy - is that it? If I were to agree to Leon's having his own way, the challenge would be removed and he'd be more free for... for you." "That is a little crude, ma chere," said Lucille, "but it is near the truth. Before you came here I felt that you had your price. It seemed to be accepted by Leon that you had pursued his son because you knew he was the heir of Leon Verender. Eh bien," she shrugged understandingly, "why should a woman not safeguard her future? I think no less of you for that." "Thank you very much." Lucille disregarded Catherine's retort. "But now you are trying to prove something else to your father-in-law, that you were truly devoted to his son and are an adoring mother. It is, perhaps, a good line to take - for you. But it is likely to be a protracted business,

and I cannot wait so long." She gave a charming, ruthless smile. "To be honest, I am in great financial difficulty, and even my dressmaker is becoming a little uneasy about my promise that soon I would not only pay my debts but there would be lavish ordering for a trousseau." "You can't blame me for your own extravagant spending." "With me, it is not extravagance, it is a necessity for my way of life. And I do blame you, most certainly. Before we learned of the existence of your child I was sure that within six months Leon would find he needed me here as his hostess and companion. Then came the news, and a fresh world opened up for him - a son in his later years, what priceless good luck! Everything else was swept from his mind." She caught herself up on this, spread her hands and said evenly, "We remained close, Leon and I, but he was absorbed in this new character of his, the grandfather. Even in that he was still a business man, taking his time over a big deal. He wanted the child, but not you." The final words were spoken with a sort of deadly quietness, but they echoed into the silence that followed. Catherine leaned forward with one arm along her knee; her glance traced the carpet patterning with unnecessary intensity. "I've been over most of this with Leon," she said at last, tiredly, "and he accepts the fact that nothing in the world would make me give up Timothy. He's been good enough to say that he feels responsible for me as well as for Timothy, which was comforting, even though I don't need it. I do realise how you're placed, madame, but if your trouble is only financial, why not tell Leon? I'm sure he ..

"You are mad!" For the first time the vixen showed through in Lucille's expression. "Do you know so little of the world - or are you being insulting? I have accepted gifts from Leon - an evening bag, gloves, perfume, a case of Paris cosmetics - but I am not an ingénue, to tell him my troubles through tears. What would be his opinion of a woman who gathers debts in order to preserve a facade? I could not possibly let him know the state of my affairs!" Catherine sighed. "I honestly fail to see how I can help you!" Lucille stood up, abruptly for her. She looked tall and commanding, very sure of herself. "You can stop being obstructive. Take the boy to the riding master, have him taught gymnastics, insist that he go off to school every day. Soothe Leon into knowing that he is having his own way, and very soon the boy will become less important. Leon enjoys this war with you. Do you know that?" "I don't enjoy it myself, but I'm certainly not going to throw Timothy to the wolves simply because he's an obstacle to your ambitions. I intend to go on teaching him myself, and to give him all the exercise he needs either in the garden or down on the beach. As for the riding, if it takes him ten years to become friendly with horses I shan't care; I won't have him forced into a nightmarish horror of such an ordinary animal as a pony!" Lucille's mouth was a thin red line, her long, pointed face was pale and controlled. "Before you came," she said, her accent pronounced, "I intended to make a friend of you. I imagined we would be a household - the four of us - that the child would always be there, but that you, being young, would go off to house parties in other towns and eventually find a husband. I would have had no enmity for the child, and it would have pleased me that Leon should find great satisfaction in his education." She gestured.

"That is what I would have offered you; a home for the boy, any assistance you might need in finding a husband, and a grand, sophisticated background." Catherine eased back into her chair and then stood up. "I'm sorry. I just don't happen to be the sort of person you expected. I do appreciate how you feel, though. You were here long before I was, and we've turned up at a rather crucial time in your affairs and more or less caused a halt in them. There's nothing I can do about it now, though." "There is much you can do!" Catherine shook her head. "No, there's nothing. I can't change the way I feel about everything, and I certainly can't allow people who have no knowledge or experience of how we lived in England to dictate how Timothy shall be treated now. He's not just a small piece of humanity who can be moulded into any shape one fancies. He's sensitive and very much an individual, and it's quite possible that he'll never take to the tough things that Leon's so keen on." "So?" With a dangerous glint in her eyes, "And what of me?" Perhaps Catherine was too weary, by now, to care very much what she said. She shrugged. "If you and Leon are fond of each other, our coming shouldn't make much difference, should it? In any case, I dare say you're very well able to take care of yourself. I'm sorry, madame." There was a heavy pause. Then Lucille nodded her head, jerkily. "In making an enemy of me you are much less wise than you think. I will see to it that you become even more sorry!" She went out swiftly, the door thudded behind her. Catherine pushed a hand round the back of her neck and massaged gently,

with her eyes closed. Her head ached from her nape to the crown, and the burning pain in her back had spread as far as the spine. There was nothing that time wouldn't heal, but the nagging pain was a little hard to bear, alongside Lucille's chill selfishness. But the scene with Madame d'Esperez would have to wait till tomorrow for dissection. All Catherine wanted now was her bed. She was lying between the sheets in the darkness when the telephone rang. She leant out and picked up the receiver, prepared to tell Antoine that she would be needing nothing tonight, thank you. But the voice that spoke was Philippe's, cool and impersonal. "I telephoned earlier to ensure that you had reached the villa safely. Leon said Lucille had seen you and you were well, but I have naturally been a little anxious." "I'm fine," she said. "How is the young man?" "An amputation, I am afraid. His condition is serious." "I do hope you got to him in time." "I, too." He drew an audible breath. "I must offer you an apology for losing my temper. I am accustomed, in such circumstances, to being obeyed." "Think nothing of it," she said politely. "I understand you are in your room. Please go early to bed with a warm drink. Bonne nuit." Feeling bleak, she put down tile telephone. He'd sounded cold as the Alps, and it was just as well. She had better keep clear of Philippe Sellier. *

Catherine had no option but to spend the next few days very quietly. Almost any kind of movement made her wince, and rather than have others notice the awkward way she sat or the effort it needed to get up and walk, she remained upstairs a good deal of the time, giving Timothy more than his usual number of lessons in his sitting-room and reading to him when other things palled. She got Louise to take him for walks, but occasionally sat outside with him herself. Leon made only one attempt to take Timothy out with him, and it failed because the little boy, for the first time since he had come to the villa, had gone up to have lunch with Michael Dean, and inadvertently gone to sleep afterwards on Michael's porch. Leon had sent Louise to find him. To Catherine, who sat in the patio, he said, "In my mail there was an invitation for the boy to spend a day with those friends of mine in Cannes. Their children are several years older than Tim, and they have a small yacht of their own; he can go out with them." "A sailing yacht?" "The real thing - not a sprog. They're pretty good with it too. It won't hurt the boy to get the feel of a slanting deck." "Not at all, so long as he's anchored." "Bah! What do you know about sailing ships?" "Almost nothing, but I've watched them. It's not much use going on one unless you're strong and have your wits about you. I'd say Timothy will be ready when he's about nine or ten." "We'll send him down to Cannes and see how he makes out." "We won't, you know."

Her voice was so unemotional that Leon didn't take in what she had said for a minute or so. He stood there on the flagstones, his heavy shoulders square in the light linen jacket, his arrogant head thrown back as he looked at her from under those thick brows. "What did you say?" he barked. Catherine was tempted to say "You heard!" But she resisted it, and tried the usual form of reasoning. "Can't you please be a little patient? Timothy's already doing lots of things he's never done before. You've seen him riding his bicycle round the house..." "A child of two can ride a bicycle!" "He's started climbing a bit, and the other day he even cracked one of those big stone pineapples down by the lily-pond." "What did he do that for?" he shouted. "Those damned ornaments have lasted more than a hundred years." She smiled. "He couldn't help it - the bike got out of hand. I thought you'd approve. Leon didn't smile back, but his tones lowered. "Thought you'd put one over on me then, didn't you? I'll bet you broke the thing yourself." He threw out a hand impatiently. "It's your outlook I quarrel with - it's niggling and womanish, and no good to a growing boy. Can he read yet?" "He's still four, you know." "Can he write his name?" "He can print it - yours, too."

"Flattering, I'm sure. But I'm not very concerned about that side of things. In fact, I agree with Lucille that you spend too much time on brainwork and not enough" on manly pastimes. In a few months he can go to school - until then you can cut down on the nursery school routine and try him out in other directions. And you'd better do it," in measured syllables, "or he'll find the going pretty hard when he gets with other boys." Catherine didn't have to answer that, for Louise appeared, crossing the patio with Timothy fast asleep in her arms. Louise had done wrong, of course. She should either have roused the child and made him walk with her or left him where she had found him; but probably she had decided that having been sent by Leon for the boy she had better bring him, and rousing him at the hour when he usually rested no doubt went against the grain. So there she was, with the slim little boy across her arms; his fair head was against her upper arm and his brown lashes lay darkly against the flushed skin of his cheek. He looked as sweet in sleep as only a child can. Leon's face was a study in distaste and despair. "Good God," he said. "If it weren't for the nose I wouldn't own him." And he strode away. "Monsieur has decided not to take the child with him?" asked Louise apprehensively. "I'm afraid he has, Louise." Catherine smiled at her. "Put Timothy in the long chair, will you? He can finish his sleep there. And don't worry about Monsieur. He doesn't mean half the things he says." "He looked very angry. We of the staff take care not to displease him." "I don't like to do it myself, but sometimes it's necessary."

Louise straightened from making Timothy comfortable. "In Madame's place," she said, with a circumspect glance across the garden, "I would say oui and nan to Monsieur. It would do no harm to appear to agree always." "I can't say I'll give in without doing so. Timothy's happiness depends on my handling of his grandfather, so I have to do what I think is best." Louise lifted her shoulders. "As you wish, madame. In France the father or grandfather makes decisions about the children, but then we French women use our influence in other ways. None of us are like the English in these things. May I bring you some coffee?" "No, thank you. I'll have tea at four. Do you know if there are to be guests for dinner tonight?" "Two messieurs, I believe. Tomorrow there will be Madame d'Esperez and Monsieur le Docteur." Catherine nodded her thanks for the information and Louise went into the house. Timothy slept on for an hour, and watching him Catherine knew a sad-sweet pang. He was so small and unknowing. Arguments raged about him, he was at the centre of Lucille's intrigues, and she herself was bound, for all his minor years, to live wherever Leon decreed. One delightful small boy was shaping the course of the lives of three people. Whatever happened, he must never know. He awoke gently, quite unsurprised to find himself outdoors. For about a minute he stared at the striped awning of the lounger in which he lay. Then he said, "There's a fly with red legs up there. Why has it got red legs?"

"It's that sort of fly," Catherine answered tranquilly. "Did you have a nice lunch with Michael?" "Mmmm. Some fish and salad. He played the gramophone." "So you enjoyed yourself?" "Mmmm." He suddenly lifted his head and looked at her, "I didn't say thank you and goodbye!" "I believe you went to sleep instead. You can thank Michael next time you see him. Like to go indoors for a wash?" "I'm going for a ride on my bike," he said, and slid sideways from the long chair. It was only to Catherine, who had known how quiet and obedient he had been in England, that his small new independence was obvious. Very gradually, he was feeling his feet Here, becoming accustomed to the freedom of eight acres of garden, the possession of the new bicycle, the power of the muscles in his legs when he climbed a paling or scrambled over a steep rockery. "Be careful on the corners, darling," she said, and decided not to watch him closely; it was apt to bring her heart into her throat. When tea arrived, Michael Dean came with it. "Mind if I have a cup with you?" he asked, lowering himself to a wrought-iron chair beside the table. "How do you like our heat?" "It's bearable, but hard on the gardens. Leon must spend a fortune on water alone." She poured tea for him, pushed the cup across the table and followed it with the sugar bowl. "Thanks for having Timothy to lunch. Whose idea was it?"

"His, of course. I met him up the garden and he made the proposition, so I sent down a message, Do I strike you as a type to spend my leisure hours with kids? For your information, he called me a clot." "A clot? Why?" "Probably because I called him one the other day and he took a fancy to the word. He's blossoming." "For heaven's sake don't teach him any swear words. He may use them on Leon." Michael laughed. "The old boy would love it. I should think you get a bit bored with it all, though. I mean, seeing Leon every day, and having to dine with those bankers and aristocrats every night. What I'm getting at is, if you'd like a gay evening I'd be happy to escort you. Leon wouldn't make anything of it, and I'd be grateful." "What a sweet way of putting it, Michael. I'll let you know." "No time like the present. What about tonight?" "Not tonight. Perhaps tomorrow." "It's a date," he said promptly. "I'll take you to the Casino." "We'll see. Aren't you so busy these days?" "Not quite. Even Leon slacks off a bit in the hot season. By the way, there's an item I think you ought to know. He's ordering a diamond necklace for the d'Esperez. So it looks as if it won't be long before you have a stepmother-in- law."

Catherine dropped the biscuit she had started to nibble, flicked a crumb from the beige pleated skirt. "Are you sure about that - the necklace?" "Sure I'm sure. It's what she's been waiting for. What's the betting she won't have it copied and sell the original to pay her bills? Seriously, though, it's going to mean a few changes round here. Fortunately, I have very little to do with the house, but you're going to feel it. Lucille doesn't like you, I'm afraid. Jealous because you got right in first go, and she's been angling for a couple of years." "That's discerning of you, Michael." She paused. "When is the necklace to arrive?" "He's considering designs, so the official order may not go out till next week, but the jeweller gave delivery time as a few days." He drank some tea and levered a currant biscuit from under a macaroon. "Well, it had to come, I suppose. The wonder is that he hasn't married before. I'll bet there have been plenty after his lolly. Lucille will look pretty good in diamonds and chinchilla, and that's probably all the old chap wants - someone to smother with Verender cash, and display to the goggling eyes of his pals." She said, a little thinly, "I knew some sort of relationship existed between Leon and Lucille, but I thought our coming here had put him off it, a bit." "Not on your life. Leon can handle a dozen propositions at once; having you here wouldn't make the smallest difference to any plans he might have about Lucille. If she thinks it might, she's not so cute as I thought she was. Anyway, the woman is coming into her own - or perhaps I should say Leon's. She'll spend for him!" He chose another biscuit, and chattily changed the topic. "I see our

doctor had his name in the paper. Some chap was half buried under his hovel and Dr. Sellier brought him down to the hospital. Philippe has kicked up a fuss because derelict houses are left standing after they've been condemned. Chap lost his foot." Catherine did not have to answer. Timothy rode up, pink- cheeked, wild-haired and hungry for biscuits and milk. He sat at the low table and stared with a faraway look in his blue eyes at Michael. "Well?" demanded Michael belligerently. "What can you see?" Timothy blinked, finished his milk and lifted his little bicycle up on to its tyres. "One of your eyes is bigger than the other," he said, and rode away. "I asked for that," Michael muttered. "I don't get kids at all. Other men can frighten them, but they treat me as if I were the radio or a garden bench." "It's a backhanded sort of compliment," Catherine said. "More tea?" "I'll have to go; I've a few things to finish before five. Don't forget about tomorrow night." "I haven't promised. Do you gamble at the Casino?" "Can't resist it," he groaned. "Cleans me out every time, but I love it. So long." A maid came for the tea things and Catherine stirred herself to take a walk. Perhaps her back did feel a little easier this afternoon. Next morning she came down rather earlier than usual, and she found Leon strolling along the paved path that led to the pool.

Distinguished-looking in light slacks and a flawless white shirt with a blue scarf knotted at the throat, he was moving quite slowly with his head bent as though he were preoccupied. When he saw her he did not stop and wait for her, but as she joined him, he said: "Good morning. What can I do for you?" She smiled, a little vexedly. "It's your own fault if I come to you only when I want something. You've never yet encouraged me to be friendly. You say it's what you want, but you don't do anything about it." "I'm no good with women, especially young ones. What's the trouble?" "No trouble. It's just something I thought of yesterday, when I heard that Philippe Sellier had been invited for dinner tonight. You always invite him alone, don't you?" "Lucille is coming, as well." "Yes, but I mean, you don't ask Philippe to bring Yvette or ... or some other woman?" "I've always figured he needed a change from Yvette. What are you getting at - the Latour girl?" Her throat felt a bit strained as she answered brightly, "Yes ... Marcelle Latour. Philippe is a bit sweet on her, I think - so his sister says - and I thought it might be a ... a helpful gesture if you asked them here together sometimes. With Yvette there, they can't be alone at Philippe's house." "They won't be alone here, but I know what you mean."

"Can it be managed?" The lower lip jutted characteristically. "Anything can be managed. I'll ring Philippe and ask him to bring her." "D'you suppose he'll think it strange?" "He probably would if he thought you were the one who'd suggested it, but I'll put it to him casually. Though I might tell you that if Philippe wanted to see a woman alone he wouldn't wait to have it arranged by someone else. He's down in Nice almost every day - you can be sure he often has a tête-à-tête with the girl." He gave her the beetling look, "What's it to you, anyway?" "Nothing at all." "There's something back of it. If you've an idea that Philippe may be getting uncomfortably interested in you, you can forget it. The Latour girl is much more in his line. She's French, has the right sort of background and knows something of the arts. If you remember, Philippe and I have that same bond." The brutal forthrightness of his thinking left Catherine weak, but she gave no sign of it. "I've no personal reason for mentioning it," she said. "The invitation to Mademoiselle Latour has to come from you, so I thought I'd catch you early, and suggest it." "Isn't there anyone you'd like to invite occasionally, on your own account? You live here now - you can do as you like." "Thank you." She kept surprise from her voice. " I haven't made any English friends yet. We seem a little cut off from the English colony."

"The younger set, perhaps. I'll see what I can do about it." In the growl he invariably assumed sooner or later when speaking to her, he added, "You don't look so bright as you used to. I know it's hot, but you're young enough to stand any amount of heat, especially when there's a pool and the sea to cool off in. Even the boy sticks it fairly well, though I must say I don't care for that pinky-brown colour of his. A boy should tan the colour of mahogany." "He's fair-skinned." "Well, we won't go into that. It's you we're talking about now. You lie about and let the heat get at you, and it's no good to you." Catherine wondered how Leon would react to a blow from a fallen rock; with a hide like his he probably wouldn't have felt it at all. "Maybe it was the heat, but I'm coming round from it now," she said. "In fact, I may go out tonight, if you don't mind." "Mind! You should go out every night. Dancing, theatres, the Casino. The night life in Nice is manufactured for people like you. If you need any more.-.." "I don't. You've been very generous, Leon." "Rubbish. I only ever give away what I've got too much of. About tonight - you can't go out alone, you know." "Michael Dean asked me to go to the Casino with him." "Oh, Dean," disparagingly. "Well, he's all right for the first time, but don't you encourage him. He's a good secretary, but he's no imagination and will never have a penny in the bank. Champagne and chemin-de-fer; that's all he's good for away from a desk, and he doesn't make much of a showing at either." He looked at his watch. "I've a man coming to see me at nine-thirty and I want to

look into his file before he arrives. Go on and take your walk - and don't dawdle. I can't stand the sight of a woman who moves like a sick hen." Catherine would have liked to reply to that one, but instead She smiled and walked on. But the smile faded, and not only because her back was still stiff. She was beginning to feel low-spirited and discouraged. Her own future was a grey blank. Lucille married to Leon, and taking command in the house; Catherine and Timothy at her disposal, to do with as she wished. Philippe ... engaged to Marcelle, married to her. Well, that was probably right for him, and certainly had nothing whatever to do with Catherine Verender. She mustn't let the peculiarities of her own character obscure the main issue which, she was convinced, had more to do with Lucille d'Esperez than anyone else. One thing she was certain about: at no time would she allow Lucille to have any sort of authority over Timothy. The day passed in its usual way. Evening came, Timothy did somersaults on his bed and eventually lay down for sleep. Catherine put on a flowered silk dress, and at seven-fifteen she went down to meet Michael at the front door. In a white dinner jacket he looked breezy and cocksure, and when she told him he could drive It was all he needed to complete the atmosphere; himself and a good-looking young woman on their way to high jinks in the gayest city on the Cote. They were halfway along the short drive when another car appeared between the tall posts. Michael slowed, so did the other driver, and as they drew abreast they almost stopped. Philippe inclined his head and smiled distantly; his companion was more forthcoming - she leaned forward and lifted her hand to Catherine, her smile wide and secure.

"Well, well," said Michael, as they slipped out on to the road. "She's quite a dream, that girl. There's something about youngish French women that gets me like a biff in the ribs. They settle down marvellously and make superb wives, I believe. I imagine the fact that Philippe is coming out into the open with the girl means he's on the point of popping the question. Why do you suppose he's waited so long?" "He's only known her about six months." "But, good lord, a man like Philippe would know how he felt about her before this." He pondered the subject. "I reckon he's been letting her get the art out of her system. She's reached her goal one of her little knick-knacks in an exhibition - and now she's ready to be a wife. That was a funny smile she gave you - sort of superior. Have you ever spoken to her?" "I met her at one of Yvette's tea parties." Catherine recalled that moment, as she had left the villa with Philippe; something hard in Marcelle's expression, even though she was smilingly assuring Philippe that she would ring her cousin and tell her not to expect her home till late. Philippe had not gone home for dinner that night - a common enough happening in the life of a bachelor doctor. Perhaps Marcelle had heard that Philippe had not been alone on his excursion into the mountains. Not that it mattered. She had what she wanted now. Michael enjoyed the dinner on a palm-enclosed terrace above the black sparkle of the Mediterranean, and the subsequent walk beneath a warm, star-studded sky to the Casino, the brilliant, feverish throng that circulated about the tables, the cries of the croupiers, the sudden silences, the babble of people caught up in the tense excitement of staking large sums to win or lose larger

sums. Good-looking, casual, he seemed to fit into the scene and enhance it. But for Catherine the evening was not a success. She had no instinct for gambling or watching others gamble, but in other circumstances she might have loved the strangeness and opulence, the pulsing feel of the place, the imperative, "Mesdames et messieurs, faites vos jeux!" Tonight she just wasn't in the mood for it, but she didn't spoil Michael's pleasure by telling him so. Still, it was rather a relief, at something after one, to be on her way back to the villa. She drove herself, while Michael, a wee bit sozzled and consequently loose about the joints, lolled in his corner and deplored the erratic turn of the roulette wheel. For two days all was quiet. Catherine gingerly tested her back muscles in the swimming pool and found them almost recovered, so that she could give Timothy a brief swimming lesson there. But he disliked the pool because his feet could not touch bottom, though he liked using the wide marble surround as a bicycle track. They returned to the house, showered and dressed, Timothy in the short shorts that French boys wear and a white shirt, and Catherine in a pink sleeveless linen. Together they went down to the patio for a brief rest before lunch. And there they found Leon and Philippe, taking a drink in the shade of the trees. Philippe bowed and set a chair for her. To Timothy he said, "You have had a good morning, mon petit? Plenty of fun?" "I been swimming." "You like swimming?" "I like the water. May I have some lemonade, please?"

"Why are you afraid to swim?" asked Leon. "Your mother swims she wouldn't let you drown." Timothy's expression remained painfully blank. "May I have some lemonade, Grandpa, please?" "Why are you afraid to swim?" "He's not afraid," said Catherine quickly. "He just hasn't got the knack yet. Timothy, go into the kitchen and ask Louise for lemonade. You may as well stay there for lunch." "Why shouldn't he have lunch with us, for once? You can stay, can't you, Philippe?" Philippe hesitated, then shrugged. "If you will tell Antoine to telephone my house, so that they know where I may be found, if necessary." He had half filled a glass for Catherine, and now leaned forward to give it to her. But he looked away from, her as he spoke to Leon. "The child no doubt eats more happily in the kitchen. I should let him go." "I don't care for the idea - never have." The piercing blue gaze rested once more on the round little face and the fair curly hair. "Like to go out with me this afternoon, Tim?" The child's baby-red lips parted as he swallowed, "Well, I... I'm going to rest first, and then,.. well.,," "You don't want to go with me?" "Yes, but..." "Go on," said Leon curtly. "Get your lunch!"

Catherine had started up and instinctively her hand had slipped down behind Timothy's head and clasped his shoulder. "I'll go with him." "He knows the way," said Leon. "Sit down, Catherine." She ignored him, took Timothy's hand and went with him into the house. The little boy drank cold lemonade thirstily, pouted wet lips as he looked up at her. "Must I go out with Grandpa this afternoon? I don't want to." "Don't you worry. I'll speak to him about it. Louise will give you your lunch and take you upstairs afterwards. Everything's all right, darling. I'll see you later." She gave him a quick kiss on the brow, a reassuring pat, and went back to the others. She leant back in the chair, picked up her glass and looked at Leon. But before she could speak he said, "All right, I've heard it ten thousand times before! There's one thing you'd better get straight, young lady. When I give an order I expect it to be obeyed. That child will never grow up if you're going to smooth every awkward moment for him. Afraid of horses, afraid to swim! He's as finicky and timid as a girl!" "He's improving," she said, "and you shouldn't expect more. You can say what you like to me, but I won't have you speak to Timothy as you do. That's why he doesn't want to go out with you - because you expect far more than he can hope to give." "When he's out with me I take very little notice of him. Do you think I want people to notice that my grandson, my grandson, is scared of every new thing he sees? Each time I hope he'll behave

like a boy, but not he! And I've come to the conclusion that he'll have to have the fright knocked out of him." "My friend," said Philippe in level tones, "you are dealing with an ordinary sensitive child, not with a young animal." "At his age, I was a young animal." "This boy is not like you - he is more like his mother." "I haven't noticed that she's scared of much!" "She is older and has built up her defence. And do not be so sure that her courage is of your kind. Sheer physical and mental strength are necessary to a man like you - but a woman's courage rests in her character." "She's obstinate," said Leon. "To look at her, you wouldn't think she had the stubbornness and kick of a mule, would you? Too delicate, you'd say, and you'd be wrong! Where that child's concerned, she's got a ridiculous set of values and a cast-iron will." "I have seen," said Philippe drily. "Stop discussing me as if I were in China,"' exclaimed Catherine. "Where did you want to take Timothy this afternoon, Leon?" "I wasn't going to take him myself - he was going with Lucille and some of her friends to a boys' boxing tournament. But forget it," violently. "He'd probably have nightmares after it. Play ring-o'roses with him in the garden, gather shells with him on the beach, stuff him with ice-cream and television! But I'm telling you now," as he leaned forward and tapped a hard finger on the table between them, "that I'll make a man of him if I have to lock you up in your room while I do it!"

"You have made your point, Leon," said Philippe. "Guard your blood pressure." Fortunately, the luncheon trolley was wheeled out just then, and they had to transfer to a dining table which had been set nearby. By the time they had been served with chilled consommé and the meats and salads had been set within easy reach, Leon had regained his normal composure. But in spite of an appearance of determined serenity, Catherine felt more than a little sick, and not only because this was the first time in ten or twelve days that Leon had broken into a tirade against her handling of Timothy. Philippe had put in his reasonable comments, had helped all three of them past the incendiary moments and suavely guided Leon into a discussion about the new trends in Chinese art. But an icy reserve was obvious in his attitude towards her. He was polite, charmingly anxious that she should eat well and try the wine, and when her fingers quivered slightly on the stem of the glass she saw him look at her face critically, with concern. But it was professional concern. For him, their slight advance towards friendship had halted, and the knowledge caused a hollow ache of loneliness in Catherine. The meal ended and they moved back to the other chairs. Catherine poured coffee, accepted a cigarette. Philippe said, "So you tried the Casino the other night. What did you think of it?" "It was exciting and strange.'' "Did you play?" "No, but Michael did. He thought I might bring him luck, but I didn't."

"Do not be despondent about that. There is a superstition that the woman who brings luck at the tables is unlucky herself. Dean is a good companion in such a place, no?" "Yes, he's great fun." It was as though they were speaking through plate glass - that barrier which Philippe maintained so expertly between himself and all women ... except Marcelle Latour, no doubt. Catherine felt she couldn't bear any more of it. She pressed out her cigarette, dusted ash from her skirt and stood up. Philippe, too, got to his feet and looked at his watch. And then all three turned their attention towards the drive. A taxi was crawling between the shrubs, to brake on the path quite close to the patio. A man got out of it, thrust some notes at the driver and waved him away. Catherine stared. And suddenly the weight of loneliness lifted and her heart almost sang its relief. She ran across the flagstones, gripped the man's coat-sleeves and gazed up at the rugged, very English face. She laughed tremulously, and a tear spilled down each cheek as he bent and kissed her forehead before putting his arms about her. "Oh, Hugh," she said huskily. "You don't know how much I've needed you!" It seemed he was normally an undemonstrative man, for almost at once he disengaged himself and, walking with Catherine, he looked beyond her at Leon Verender. She slipped her hand into Hugh's and said: "You must meet Timothy's grandfather. Leon, this is Hugh Manning. He's a second cousin of mine and Timothy's godparent." And, quickly, "Where is Philippe?"

"He remembered an appointment." "But..." Then she heard the car start up at the side of the house, and it appeared on the drive. Philippe raised a hand and was gone.

CHAPTER SIX HUGH MANNING had booked in at the auberge on the main road near Pontrieux, and to Leon's offhanded statement that he could stay at the Villa Chaussy and welcome he returned a polite refusal. "I came here to see Catherine, not to land myself on you," he said in his blunt fashion. "I'm on leave, actually, and the inn will be a good centre for touring the district. Thank you for the thought, though." Leon gave him a long measuring look, took a pull at his cigar and said, "Any relation of Catherine's is welcome here. But don't believe everything she tells you. And don't lose sight of the fact that a godfather has no pull whatsoever in a court of law." He nodded and went into the house. Hugh Manning, thickset, sober-eyed and going a little grey at the temples though his crisp hair remained a good chestnut colour above the brow, looked earnestly at the pale and delicate features of the young woman who sat close to him, under the garden umbrella. "I had to come," he said. "The tone of your letter was too light, Catherine; it made me horribly uneasy. And the very thought of your coming here to Leon Verender .., well, I just couldn't take it. You must have had trouble or he wouldn't have spoken as he did to me just now. And you don't look all right to me. What in the world has been going on?" "Don't let's talk about it for a bit; it's so lovely to have you here that I simply want to soak it in. Wait till Timothy sees you! He may not remember you, but we've often talked about Uncle Hugh. It's so good to have you here."

"I'm darned glad to be here." He eased his collar. "Do you know that it's hotter in France than in Hong Kong? We get it more steamy, but this is grilling." Darling Hugh, with his prosaic speech and rare smile. "You said you're on leave," she demanded urgently. "Is that true? How long do you have?" "I had some overseas leave mounting up, but I heard that they'll be transferring me back to England in about a year, so I was quite happy to take three months' leave now." "Three months! That's wonderful. Hugh ... I still can't believe it's you." "It's me, all right. Old Faithful, who couldn't set the Thames on fire if they covered it with benzine and handed me a match factory. I'm still managing Hewitt & Smith's agency and I shall probably stay with the firm for ever." "You're the one stable thing in my world. I've missed you more even than I knew myself. You were always such a help when..." The words halted and he said gently, "I wanted to come to you when I heard about Ewart, but I don't suppose I could have done much more for you than your family did. It was something you had to get through on your own. Your letters from England sounded so sensible, and it wasn't till I had the one you wrote from here that I began to feel really disturbed. It was what you didn't say that worried me. There was almost nothing in it about Leon Verender, and I knew how he'd treated Ewart when you two were married. The very thought of your being at the mercy of some iron-hearted old millionaire who wanted his pound of flesh - meaning Timothy..." He sighed. "I had a couple of sleepless nights and then

put in for leave. They wouldn't release me till last week-end. I flew over." "I'm so grateful. It has been a bit wearing. Leon's a very hard man, and he says abominable things to me in front of anyone who happens to be around. Sometimes it's for show, but he's pretty ruthless. And yet there are isolated moments when I don't mind him at all." "A man of his kind is bound to be a bit of a character, and I suppose he trades on his own importance. What sort of things does he say?" Catherine tried to tell him, but when his brows came together she found herself excusing Leon. "To him, I dare say, Timothy does seem too good-looking and rather reluctant to try things out for himself. You know how we lived in London, Hugh. He had to be quiet indoors, to be taught care in crossing the roads, to keep off the grass in certain parks, to take off wet shoes ... oh, a hundred things that made him into a careful, polite little boy. Leon hoped for a tough little delinquent who'd look exactly like himself." Hugh smiled. "That sounds like an exaggeration." "It's not. I hadn't been in the house five minutes before Leon began talking about the marvellous future he wanted for Timothy, and the merciless way he intended to prepare him for it. If Timothy cries he takes it as a personal insult.- He doesn't know a thing about boys." "Because he never knew Ewart," Hugh said. "In a way I feel sorry for him." "Wait till you know him! He's a thundering big bully."

"But good heavens, there must be some way of showing him that he can't suddenly take over your son. The boy's only four!" "That's what I keep telling him, but it seems that he himself could ride, swim, climb tall trees and sail a yacht before he was Timothy's age. Somehow I've managed to scotch his more deadly plans, but only this lunch-time he started again. He'd arranged for Timothy to go to a boys' boxing tournament this afternoon and the poor pet didn't want to go out with Grandpa." She was smiling a little, but not happily, "I hate all this trouble about him, Hugh. I want him to be just a happy little boy, half forgotten, so that he feels free and can develop naturally." "We'll have to see what we can do." He eased his collar again, and went on carefully, "Of course, you know that there is one way you could end all this. I know you were very fond of Ewart, even after he let you down so badly and went back to the racing game, but," he adjusted his tie, "well, it's over a year now, and for a year or so before that you and he..." He hesitated, and started a new sentence, a little hurriedly. "Leon Verender would have to pipe down somewhat if you married again." "That possibility is rather remote." "It needn't be." He was looking at her now. "Since you were a schoolgirl you've meant a lot to me, and I'd love to look after you and Timothy. I'm one of those chaps who regularly save a proportion of their salary, so I've plenty to set us up in a place of our own. There's nothing hasty about this." She took his hand and gripped it tightly. "You're the sweetest man I know," she said unsteadily, "but that's not the answer. We do love each other, but not in a marrying way. We're the sort of

couple who can part and meet again a year later and still feel the same. Lovers aren't like that; they're very different. It's a splendid gesture, Hugh, but I couldn't accept it." "Don't be silly about this. If I seemed to dither a bit it was because I've never proposed before, and I knew the way you'd take it, at first. But let's be sane, my dear. I'm not one of those chaps who can rush a woman off her feet, but that's not what you're wanting, is it? You used to be like that when you were younger - knight-inarmour stuff, stars in your eyes, and all the rest - but you've grown up a lot since you were twenty-one. In those days, I wouldn't have dared ask you to marry me." "Hugh, please," she said, distressed for him. "I don't even want to think about it. I'd love you to get married - I remember writing it to you in one of my early letters to Hong Kong - but I... well, I wouldn't do for you. We just don't feel that way." "I do." She shook her head jerkily. "No, you only think you do because I'm in a muddle and marriage might get me out of it. If I'd stayed on in England near my family you wouldn't have come home and proposed like this." He said doggedly, "Not right now, perhaps, but it would have happened some time - if you were still free." "There, you see?" She smiled at him a little mistily. "When you're in love you don't hang about waiting for leave before you tie a woman down. You put it in a letter, a telegram, anything - so long as you get it said. In that sort of love there's a terrible urgency, a compulsion to make sure of the other person. Don't you see?"

He sighed and said slowly, "I can see one thing very clearly. You're still nearly twelve years younger than I am, and nothing less than a terrific love affair would induce you to marry again. I thought what I had to offer might be enough, but I ought to have known better." He managed a smile. "I think it's because you're different from any girl I've ever known that I've cared about you so much. You had those lovely features and startling hair, and you seemed such a gay and intelligent person to have as a cousin. I suppose I'm really the sort of chap who should have married some nice nondescript girl who'd happily drown in domesticity. Trouble is, I'm too much that way myself. I never even look at a woman unless she's quite different from others. You know," ruefully, "a confirmed bachelor isn't always one by choice; often they've passed through a period when they wanted marriage very much, but the sort of woman who gravitated towards them didn't bear comparison with her ideal." "Ideals seldom exist," she said softly, "and they're a bit cold and out of reach. If I were choosing a wife for you she wouldn't be dull; she'd sparkle and know how to keep you guessing, and she wouldn't be perfect by a long way. And because you're you, you'd love her all the more for her imperfections ..." She stopped and laughed a little. "I'm running away with myself because I've been dammed up. Please don't let's talk about it any more - not for a while, anyway. Tell me about Hong Kong." But he hadn't much to tell her about his life in the East. Hugh Manning was one of those Englishmen who lead the same routine life however exotic their surroundings. Yes Hong Kong was very interesting - rather crowded and busy, but there was plenty to do if you were the sociable sort. Yes, he did belong to a club, but didn't go there much; the firm's house was on the Peak, and he liked the evenings up there. He had a few friends, of course. No, he hadn't bothered about seeing the sights - saw enough on the daily ferry to

and from Kowloon. Catherine was trying to make him remember more when Timothy came out. Eagerly, she watched him wander towards them, a small boy in a clean white shirt and dark shorts, his hair brushed over in a curl at one side. Hugh said, in astonishment, "He's quite big. He looked much smaller in the snap you sent. Hallo, Timothy. Do you remember me?" "You're Uncle Hugh," Timothy said. "We looked at your photo too one day." "You could try and be a little surprised to see me." "Children are never surprised," said Catherine. "Shake hands with Uncle Hugh, darling. He's come to Pontrieux for a holiday. We'll all go for picnics together." Timothy shook hands, eyed Hugh's thickish shoulders. "Do you ride horses?" "No. A game of golf is my maximum effort." "Do you swim?" "Sometimes. What about you?" Timothy looked bored. "It's tea-time. I'll go and ask Louise for my milk and biscuits." "He's very self-possessed," Hugh commented, as Timothy went towards the terrace. "And he looks wonderful." "The self-possession is really a sort of defence, I'm afraid. I could gradually make him confident in the water, but Leon keeps barking

at him. 'Can you swim yet?' - and he gets frightened all over again. It's most disheartening." "We'll have to do something about it. Have you been battling quite alone with old Verender?" "Not quite." She hesitated, and spoke non-committally, "There's a Dr. Sellier - he was here when you arrived, but apparently he couldn't stay to meet you. He's been helping me a little. You know that game in which you play ball with someone and a third person stands in the middle? It's been like that - but by no means a game! Leon and I are starkly opposed on certain things, and Philippe ,., Dr. Sellier sort of keeps the balance. He's one of those annoying creatures who sees all sides of a question. He thinks I should give in on some points." "But that might be fatal!" "I don't know. He says I'm with Timothy too much, and it's true. He also feels that it's wrong for my life to revolve round the boy." "He should stick to his pills and injections. Timothy's all you've got, and why shouldn't you be wrapped up in him? I'd better speak to Leon Verender - as Timothy's godfather, I mean." "Not yet, Hugh," she said quickly. "We'd better leave it for a few days. Oh, here's the tea. After we've had it we'll all go down to the beach for an hour. You'll love Pontrieux, Hugh. It hasn't changed in the last two or three hundred years." The comforting thing about Hugh, Catherine thought later, as they got into the primrose car, was that from the moment you met him again it was as though you'd never parted from him.

Gingerly, he touched the pastel blue leather. "Is this the old man's?" "No, it's mine - at least, it belongs to Leon's daughter-in- law. I don't really exist here as a person." "It's not like you to accept such a situation. Surely if you consulted a lawyer.. ." "No, I won't do that." She gave him a half smile. "I've thought about it endlessly, and come to the conclusion that Ewart was probably more right than he knew when he appointed his father as Timothy's guardian. If he hadn't done that, Timothy would never have known another Verender, and he'd have missed, a good deal. It's not the rightness of the situation that bothers me - only Leon's impatient handling of it. Well, let's forget it all for a while. Look, there's our beach!" But a minute later the beach was forgotten again, for Lucille d'Esperez swept past them in her pink car, inclining her head gracefully for a second as she did so. "That," said Catherine drily, "is probably the second Mrs. Leon Verender." "Good heavens! He's drooling after a woman at his age?" demanded Hugh. "She looks quite young!" "She does, but she's probably forty. Leon doesn't drool, however; he knows he'll be married for his money, but no doubt feels even that is better than a companionless old age. Actually, she's not good enough for him." After that, they did forget the Villa Chaussy and its inmates for a while. Hugh, terribly English and out of place in his lounge suit,

insisted on walking down to the water's edge and showing Timothy how to play ducks and drakes. He looked happy and absorbed, but a trifle yellow, Catherine thought. It was almost dusk when they returned to the car, but Timothy didn't look particularly tired. Perhaps he was getting a little old for the afternoon sleep? When the car was moving again, Hugh said, "I'll have to ask you to drop me off at the inn. I haven't even unpacked yet. Shall I see you this evening?" "You'll want to be quiet. Let's meet tomorrow - I'll call for you at ten in the morning." "Good. But come in for a quick drink now." "There's Timothy." "A very quick one," he urged. "Won't hurt him to stay in the car for two minutes." He turned and spoke to the little boy. "You'll be good if we leave you alone for a minute or two, won't you?" "Of course," came the dignified reply. "I'm not a baby." "That's the boy." There was not much parking space in front of the small auberge, but Catherine was able to avoid the mass of scooters and tiny old cars and run alongside the building, where she switched off. She turned and gave Timothy a pat and a smile, told him she'd be back in a shake and went inside the auberge with Hugh. The low-ceilinged public room was crammed with sexlesslooking people in slacks and shirts, with an occasional bright

woollen cap here and there. The air was so thick with smoke that for a moment Catherine failed to recognise someone who greeted her by name. Then she saw that there were several people she knew by sight, bearded men and spiky-haired women whom she had met at Yvette Sellier's tea party. "I'd forgotten," she murmured to Hugh. "This is a sort of club room for the local long-haired crowd. Want to be introduced?" "Lord, no," he said fervently. "We'll take our drinks outside. Wait here while I get them." It was while Hugh stood at the bar that Catherine saw Yvette. She was sitting sideways on a bench against the wall, her legs drawn up and clasped by her long bare arms, her small pointed chin resting on one knee while she gazed with her almond-shaped enigmatic eyes at her noisy, impecunious companions. She looked like a mature and knowledgeable elf, and even when she saw Catherine her expression changed very little. But she swung down her legs, gave her straight black hair a shake and stood up, a slender figure in black jeans and a black string-knit blouse. Casually she pushed her way through the crowd. "So. This is not a place for you, surely? You look for someone?" "I'm with a friend who arrived here only today. Have we interrupted a club meeting?" Yvette lifted her shoulders and sent a dispassionate glance over the people who were drinking and laughing behind them. "They talk too much, about nothing. I was bored an hour ago, but I have to wait for one of them to take me home and they are not anxious to break up their grave discussions of each other's jingles and illustrations." She gave Catherine the benefit of a long oblique glance. "Thank you for dealing so promptly with my request.

Marcelle said she and Philippe had a perfect evening together at the Villa Chaussy." Hugh readied them, holding long glasses rather high. Catherine said, "This is my cousin, Hugh Manning. Hugh … Mademoiselle Yvette Sellier." "How do you do," said Hugh awkwardly. "Take this drink, mademoiselle, and I'll get myself another." Yvette flicked her fingers. "No more drink for me, merci! I was wondering, Catherine, whether you would be good enough to drive me home?" "I'd love to. Hugh is staying here at the inn, and I must leave him to it." "We can still have our drink outside," he said, as he opened the way for them. "The inn looked so quiet when I booked in; I can't stand these bohemian lounging types." When they had reached the half-lit darkness, Yvette said smiling, "I am one of these lounging types myself, and I am beginning to feel that I cannot endure us, either." "I do beg your pardon." Hugh floundered a little. "I thought, as you were a friend of Catherine's..." He let it tail off. Once more Yvette lifted those narrow Shoulders. "You are no doubt right about us, Mr. Manning. We are drab and monotonous." "I didn't say that! I'm the drab one, and maybe you've too much colour for me. I do beg your pardon."

"You have already said that. You were excused!" Yvette peered through the car window. "So this is the small son! He is like you, Catherine." "Yes, I'm afraid he is." "But why afraid? For you, it is a good thing. He cannot remind you too forcibly of the husband you lost, and he will not remind the next man you marry that he is not the first. But Mr. Manning no doubt knew the child's father." "I was his best man," said Hugh stiffly. "That is traditional, no? The best man comforts ..." She stopped, and said more quietly, "I apologise. I drank in there because suddenly I was bored, bored, bored! I had just a little too much. May I sit in the car, please?" She slid into the front seat, and when the door was closed she sat looking down at her fingers. Quickly, Catherine emptied her glass and let Hugh take it. "I must go now," she whispered. "See you tomorrow." Hugh, puzzled and concerned, watched them drive away. Catherine could imagine him shaking his head to himself as he fought his way back to the bar and upstairs to his room. People who talked what he called bilge and drank for no reason at all were quite incomprehensible to Hugh Manning. Catherine said, "It's rather late for Timothy. If you don't mind, I'll take him to the villa and drive you home afterwards. Can you wind down your window? The air will make you feel better." Or make you pass out, she thought anxiously.

Yvette managed the window. Thinly, she said, "This is not a habit of mine, to take three or four drinks. Some of them came to the house for tea and we drove them to the auberge. Sitting there, I thought of the futility of my life, of my uselessness." "That's silly. You were pitying yourself." Yvette's tones hardened. "You are very brave, of course, but you are not temperamental. When one feels everything as sharply as I do one must find an outlet." "I think you're very lucky. You live in a charming villa and as the doctor's sister you have chances every day of helping people who may be sad because of illness in the family. Just a word or two over the telephone and you've done your good deed. And I dare say that crowd you move with could be fun, if you saw them less often and didn't take them too seriously." "That is kind of you - to remind me of my good fortune. You think I live with remorse because I did not marry that stupid lawyer? You are wrong." There the conversation had to break off, because they had reached the Villa Chaussy. Catherine took Timothy into the house, told Louise he must have supper and go straight to bed and that she would be back in time to say good night to him. "Say the good night now, madame," said the calm Louise, "then you need not hurry." So Catherine kissed him and left him. She loved the half- hour before bed with Timothy and hated to be cheated of it, but she knew he would be all right with Louise, and she did feel rather worried about Yvette Sellier. What was the matter with the woman? She wasn't weak-willed, and in spite of the company she

kept she did have a strict moral code. Yet there she was, miserable and a little disgusted with herself, and almost in a state bordering on the neurotic. She was too much a Sellier to give way completely. Catherine started up the car and turned back towards the road. Yvette sat huddled in her corner, a small withdrawn figure with a certain arrogance in the way she held her head, even now. They drove through the half-lit streets of the little town, turned off towards the terraces of villas. "I must explain to you," Yvette said at last. "Please don't feel you have to. We all have peculiar patterns of behaviour when we're upset or sad." "So you guess." Yvette's tones were dull and flat. She asked the question Catherine had put to herself. "What is wrong with me? I am more fond of Philippe than of anyone in the world, yet when it becomes obvious that he is going to marry someone we both love, I am sick to the depths. I think I must be a little mad." Catherine's throat had gone dry and her fingers were tense on the wheel. "When did it become obvious that Philippe is going to marry?" she queried. "Only today?" "I told you I have been hoping," said Yvette. "I care a great deal for Marcelle - she is not a grubby dilettante but a sweet person who wishes to develop her talent. Perhaps, in her pursuit of Philippe, she is rather selfish, but one can forgive her that. Today she came for lunch with us both. Philippe was late and said he needed only some coffee in his study. Marcelle carried the tray to him and stayed with him for some time. When she came back to the dining-room she looked pleasantly disturbed. I teased her, and she said Philippe was in a strange mood, a trifle angry about

something, though he had assured Marcelle he could never be angry with her. He told her that she was a most soothing antidote to the sort of morning he had had. I was ... quite pleaded." "But something happened after that?" Catherine asked. Yvette again lifted those black-clad shoulders. "Marcelle was to stay with me all day, but after the others arrived, Philippe had to go out... and Marcelle went with him." There was a silence, while Catherine swung the car towards the last lap. Eventually she was able to say, "I seem to remember it's what you wanted - an engagement between your brother and Marcelle." "I encouraged Marcelle because I thought she was different from other women. But the success with Philippe has made her contemptuous of me. She walked out with Philippe without even recalling that she had promised to spend the day with me. Or perhaps she remembered, but it was of no consequence compared with the happiness of being with Philippe." She moistened her reddened lips. "It is not simply that I detest being alone in the evenings. It is the way she is changing, now that she is sure of Philippe. I find it insupportable." Her voice had gone small and hollow, and for a long moment Catherine was wrung with compassion for this woman who was older than she in years but very young in her emotional reactions. She tried to infuse comfort into her tones, "I think you're probably imagining a great, deal. When she's more accustomed to her own feelings, and .., and of Philippe's, Marcelle will be just as she was before'. A woman doesn't change towards her friends when she marries."

"But this is different, no?" Yvette threw out a small pale hand. "I am Philippe's sister and somewhat in the way. When Marcelle becomes mistress of the villa I will be the tolerated demoiselle, the old maid! That will happen to me, Yvette Sellier, who encouraged Marcelle's friendship with Philippe because I felt she and I could live companionably together. She will resent me, and make remarks about her age and mine. She will become more important to Philippe than I - and yet I have more brains in my toes than she has in her head!" Catherine smiled, though rather weakly. "So you decided to go out with the crowd and drown your sorrows - but they wouldn't drown. Well, you're home now, Yvette. Need any help?" "Please. Oh, I can walk well enough, but please go in with me. There is no car, you see, so Philippe is still out. Please... I feel I must talk!" Catherine felt she couldn't listen to any more; it was too harrowing. But Yvette's small face was pale, and in the shaft of light from he french windows she looked her age and very depressed, and Catherine knew that if she did leave her now she herself would feel uneasy all evening. So she got out of the car and went with Yvette into the house. Yvette led the way upstairs to her very French 'bedroom, and there she indicated a bowl-shaped armchair and herself sank down on to a mound of cushions. "I am so very sorry about those too many drinks," she said, "Please do not tell Philippe." "Of course not. Why don't you get into bed and sleep them off?" "Yes, I will do that." But she did not move. "Your cousin will be disgusted with French women. He looked most collet monte. What is the English for that?"

"Strait-laced? He isn't, really. In a way he's quite adventurous, though he doesn't think so. He's working in Hong Kong." "These English!" She smiled slightly. "They are always the same in England, on the Riviera or away in the China Seas. He will have a dreadful opinion of us here. You must explain,«. no, do not explain. Just say to him I am sorry." "I'll do that. Perhaps next time you two meet you'll get a more reasonable slant on each other. Don't you think you should go to bed now? I can ask your maid to bring you some supper." "Very well. Tell her - no, I will make my little mensonges myself! I am a good liar, you know." She sighed. "Your idea of me now will be very bad, and that hurts me. I would so much like you to come and see me sometimes. I am always here." "You shouldn't be. What about your family friends - don't you go out to see them?" "They gave me up long ago, but they do come here for dinner about twice a year. They are fond of Philippe." The large eyes flashed wide open. "I am very grateful to you, but I think you must go, before Philippe returns. Please come for tea soon - tomorrow? And bring that big clumsy cousin, so that I can show him I am not always tipsy." In one swift graceful movement, which made her sway and close her eyes for a second, she stood up. "Yes, my bed. Au revoir, Catherine, and thank you. I think you are the sweetest person I know." Catherine made some sort of answer and slipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. She paused and listened, heard an unmistakable stride in the hall, the sound of feet on the carpeted staircase. A faint sweat started at her temples, and she looked about her in the corridor, hurriedly and without definite thought.

There were doors, all of them dosed except one, which stood wide, its entrance a black rectangle. She crossed the corridor and was swallowed in the gloom. With a fist pressed against her thudding heart, she edged behind the door and listened. The opening and closing of a door, running water, a short silence while he no doubt used a towel, and then the click of the door opening again. Those footsteps on the thick carpet. Then, with stunning suddenness, she remembered her car was outside. He must know she was here. Even so, it would be better for him to see her sister and get her story, and while he was in that room she, Catherine, could run downstairs and drive away. He'd think they'd missed each other accidentally. Yes, he'd gone into Yvette's room. Catherine stole out into the corridor, began to run soundlessly towards the staircase. Two flights, she recalled, with a wide Turkey-red landing halfway. A door opened behind her and, foolishly, she put on speed, reaching the stairs before she was quite ready for them. She pitched forward, hit a couple of carpeted edges on the way and fell in a heap on to the landing. "Mon dieu! Imbecile!" Philippe was beside her on one knee, slipping an arm under her, twisting her so that he could see her face. "You are him? Pain somewhere?" "No." She swallowed, found herself staring into his dark leaping eyes. "No, I'm quite whole. I'm terribly sorry. You see, I..." "I know!" She closed her eyes against his anger, and with vision shut out, her other senses came excruciatingly alive. His maleness blanketed her, his arms, his warm breath across her brow, the vibrant

strength of the fingers which, no doubt professionally, felt her shoulder and the bones of her arm. Still seated on the carpet, she leaned forward, away from his arm, and put a shaky hand to her face. "You've had enough of this kind of thing all day," she said huskily. "I'm ashamed of myself." His hands took her elbows and lifted her to her feet, steadied her. In an icicle voice which had a peculiar undertone he said, "Running away was not such a good idea, hein? We will take the next staircase sedately." They reached the hall, and Catherine, to her mortification, felt her hair tumbling about her face. Her head still bent, she sought for the pins and twisted the usual pleat into a knot. She dropped her arms, and let her glance slide over his face before she averted it. He looked taut, and rather more sallow than usual. There was a compression at his mouth, his nostrils had thinned, and the grey eyes had a blue steeliness about them. "Sit down," he said. She hesitated, then sank into an old tooled leather chair beside the hall table. There were flowers on the table, white rosebuds with a few speckled carnations, arranged neatly and without love, no doubt by the maid. The clove smell of the carnations was overpowering, and idiotically, Catherine recollected old Brulard telling her that flowers took longer to wilt in hot sunshine if they happened to have a strong protective perfume. "I'd better explain," she said, wondering how in the world she was going to. "Did Yvette tell you why I'm here?" "She told me nothing. I saw the car; you were not in the salon and I concluded you had gone with my sister to her room. Yvette was

alone, but I had the feeling you were still in the house. I came from the room in time to see you hurry and fall." A pause, then a metallic enquiry: "It was I who caused you to stumble, was it not?" Her reply sounded a little feverish. "Of course not. I wasn't paying enough attention. I was silly to hurry down a strange staircase, and I'm thankful you have carpet, and not marble as we have at the Villa Chaussy. I've quite recovered, and I certainly must go now." "My sister invited you here?" "We met in the town. I had the car, so I gave her a lift home." "You met at the auberge?" "Yes. She was with friends." "And you also were with a friend." "I'm sorry you didn't stay to meet my cousin at lunch- time," she said conventionally. "I would say he found your greeting was sufficient," he said, a hard, ironic note in his voice. "Why did you send for him?" "I didn't. My letter telling him that Timothy and I had come to Pontrieux worried him. He felt I needed a ... a man, so he put in for leave. He'd go to any trouble, for us." "That was obvious." She looked up, then, stung by his tone. "Hugh has been my favourite cousin since I was a child. He's helped me enormously, at different times, and if it hadn't been for Hugh, a couple of years

ago ..." She broke off abruptly, then said, "I know him better than I know any other man." "And he has asked you to marry him?" The question was unexpected; even for Philippe it was going rather far. But there was a mercilessness in him. He looked in a mood to probe and probe till he got at the truth, "Yes, he has." Before she could say more he had plunged his hands into his pockets and taken a few paces, saying rapidly as he did so, "It was inevitable. He is so unlike the first man in your life. He is slow and thoughtful and blessedly free from imagination. It would not hurt him that you once loved another man more than you love him; he is so grateful that you love him at all! And you. You think you have had enough of living on a dangerous emotional plane; you wish to vegetate with this man because the idea presents a picture of peace. Or perhaps," swinging round and fastening upon her a glittering glance, "it is for the child that you submerge your own feelings? He would make an admirable parent, this cousin, and an ally against whom even Leon would find himself in difficulties. Is that how you think?" "I haven't thought about it at all." "And you hate my questions!" "Yes," in low tones, "I'm afraid I do. Don't think I haven't been very grateful for your help with Leon. It's only because you've pointed out to him his errors a few times that I've been able to get my own way in certain directions. But you're not Timothy's godfather and you have no duty of any kind towards me. Hugh and I ... we've known each other so long that we understand almost

without speaking; and I might tell you," with a quivering in her voice, "that it's a vast relief to me to have him here. As Leon is at the moment I can deal with him, but when he marries Lucille d'Esperez things will change. I doubt if I shall be able to go on living at the Villa Chaussy." "Is that something else you resent?" he asked crisply. "Do you grudge Lucille the admiration and affection of Leon? Or do you have the modern idea that a man past sixty should crawl decently into oblivion?" Catherine looked down at her skirt. "Leon's private life is not my concern except where it touches Timothy. Lucille has no children." "So for the child's sake you will reinforce your own parenthood with this Hugh Manning! That is contemptible - not worthy of you. Before you go further you must realise that Leon has rights that neither Lucille nor your cousin can alter." That seemed to be that. Catherine could Have argued with him, she could have told him that she had turned down Hugh's proposal and was really a little frightened of what Lucille might contrive. But she remembered the way he had left the villa after lunch, and Yvette's description of how he had been alone with Marcelle in his study and later wafted her off with him. Well, he could have his Marcelle; but nothing had ever entitled him to take Catherine Verender to task for the way she ran her own life. She got to her feet. "I'm expected home for dinner. I really must go." He was quite close. '"You had a chat with my sister in her room?" "Yes."

"It was arranged between you that you should leave before I arrived home?" "Not exactly." "Then you yourself did not wish to meet me?" "Well, we do rather annoy each other, don't we?" He looked at her bent head, saw the curly wisps she had been unable to secure, the pale skin of her neck, the fine curve of her cheek. "Yes," he said offhandedly, "we do. I will take you to the car." She went first, and he reached behind her to open the car door. She got into the car and started the engine, barely looked at him before pressing down the accelerator. She heard his sharp shout: "Switch on your lights!" and did so, swerving to avoid the rocky border of a flower bed. Then she was out on the road, with a blinding heat at the back of her eyes and a lead casing round her heart.

CHAPTER SEVEN HUGH was delighted with Pontrieux, its main streets and haphazard terraces, the fort at Mont Ste. Agnes, the lazy- looking palms which graced almost every garden, the tumbling masses of bougainvillaea that produced striking patches of colour in spite of the heat, and, of course, the beach. Glorious golden sand with a rocky outcrop here and there for shade and cliffs confining the bay and forming romantic-looking caverns. He bathed with Catherine and took an uneasy Timothy into deep water, lounged and smoked a cigarette and talked, in his dry fashion, about old times and people they'd known. The few strangers on the beach no doubt took them for a happy little family, and Catherine, still desperate from that last moment with Philippe, wondered if it could possibly work. No, their relationship was all wrong for it. They were too comfortable together, knew too much about each other. And they had never been even remotely in love. At twelve-thirty she drove him to the inn. "I'll have to get hold of a car of my own," he said. "They tell me there's one for hire at the garage. I'll walk along and have a look at it after lunch." "You'll find the place closed till three. They're at their most wide awake here about six in the evening." "I'll phone then. I want to be able to come and see you whenever I feel like it - which will be often!" She touched his hand. "It's lovely having you here, but I'm going to be awfully frank. Please don't come to the villa unless you're invited. I mean that, Hugh. We can be together every day - I'll bring picnics and we can tour, if you like - but I don't want you to have any clashes with Leon. He's probably already had a session

with his lawyer, to find out just how important you are to his schemes. If he can't get at you it will take the wind out of his sails." "I thought you needed me. You said so." "I do, but you don't have to assert yourself unless it becomes necessary. I don't think it's possible to hurt Leon, but why should we even try? I've found it's much easier to deal with each grouse of his as it turns up. Will you let me decide when it's right for you to come to the villa?" "Well, all right." But he wasn't too pleased about it. "What time shall I see you this afternoon? Three-ish? What about leaving Timothy with me for lunch?" Catherine looked doubtfully at the sandy little boy in the back seat. "He needs a shower and fresh clothes." "I'll sluice him down. Like to have lunch with me, Timothy?" "Mmmm. I never had lunch in a pub." Catherine blinked. "Pub? Where did you get that?" "Michael says bread and cheese and beer in a pub is his idea of.,." He lost himself and ended, "He likes it." "So do I," said Hugh heartily. "Let's go in and have some." "Don't stuff him," Catherine warned. "And please, Hugh, don't give him anything he hasn't had before. Ask him first. Timothy, are you quite sure you want to stay with Uncle Hugh?" "Sure I'm sure."

She sighed, and smiled at Hugh. "I can't make up my mind whether its good or bad for him to pick up expressions from Michael. Some of them are definitely blue! Is it wicked to be delighted even when I'm shocked?" "Of course not, but you should tell the chap to be a bit careful. Come on, Timothy. I'll let you have first go in the bath." It was rather odd to be driving back to the Villa Chaussy without Timothy, but she was glad he had remained behind so willingly. It still worried her that he had no small friends, but while he drifted round with Hugh or Michael he was learning tiny things about men which were helping him to grow away from the almost model child he had been. And when schooldays came round he'd be ready for them, and find plenty of companionship. She stopped the car on the drive and left the keys dangling from the ignition lock. She was hardly at the front door before the chauffeur had taken possession of the car; it would be sparkling next time she used it, not a grain of sand in sight. Well, it was a pleasant life, but only for a while. When Timothy eventually started school she would feel superfluous; she simply wasn't made for a life of idle luxury. She slipped out of the beach dress and washed, put on a white pleated skirt and a smart navy blouse. Taking a long look at herself in the mirror, she thought that easily attained good clothes might have an insidiously warping effect on one's character. It was too easy to slide into the mood they engendered, an indolent take-meor-leave-me attitude. And on the whole there was more fun in wearing something you had worked and saved for. She now owned a large exclusive wardrobe which had cost Leon a packet. Not that she minded his paying for her clothes; if he wanted her to look every inch a Verender why shouldn't he pay for the privilege?

Deep inside, she had never quite admitted to having changed from a Harvey into a Verender. During the first couple of years it had been delightful to be a Mrs. instead of a Miss, but after that, in moments of disillusionment, she had found that in some things she and Ewart were strangers to each other - she all Harvey, he all Verender. He'd chafed at the restrictions of marriage, been proud of Timothy and jealous of him. She'd tried to laugh him out of the jealousy, and each time he'd made the same complaint. "I don't really know you. There's a part of yourself you keep right away from me." In vain, she'd told him it wasn't true. Privately she had thought he needed that little stick to beat her with because he knew that every time he entered a racing car he let her down all over again. Now she was not so sure. Perhaps in those days she had kept some part of herself from him simply because he hadn't awakened it. They'd both been young and ebullient, and not too curious about what lay beneath the gaiety, and she had eventually found Timothy an absorbing little personality; he had made up for other lack. But Catherine had a small, haunting conviction that all the secret compartments were wide open now. She felt different in a most painful way. Resolutely stopping her thoughts right there, she went downstairs. Leon was alone in the salon, reading a newspaper and drinking his pre-lunch whisky. He looked up. "Like a drink?" "No, thanks. Have the English papers come in?" "The whole range is in my study. Help yourself." She found the Telegraph, came back and sat down. For a few minutes only the crackle of newsprint punctuated the silence.

There was no world-shaking news any more, thought Catherine. Even when half a continent fell apart, killing thousands, the rest of the world read the headlines and passed on. The reflection was sobering. "It's getting very hot here," said Leon abruptly. "I always take a cruise in the hot weather. I'm arranging to have three weeks aboard the yacht." "Oh." Catherine looked at his face and learned nothing, "Do you fix up a party of guests?" "I certainly don't go sailing around on my own." He drew hard on his cigar, sent out a thin stream of aromatic smoke. "Usually I get hold of business colleagues and their wives, and perhaps a sportsman or two. A mixed bag who can amuse each other. Dean has been telephoning different people this morning - seems there'll be about fourteen of us. A good number, fourteen." Catherine said nothing and he added, narrow-eyed, "You and the boys are coming, of course, and Lucille thinks we should invite your cousin, but I'm not so sure." "When do you intend to sail?" "It takes a week or so to provision and get ready. Haven't seen the yacht, have you?" "Only in the distance, from the shore." "I'm proud of her; she's carried some famous people." He gave her the long, penetrating look. "You don't seem ecstatic about it." "I was just thinking it wouldn't really be very good for Timothy - a sophisticated adult cruise."

"There'll be another boy - and partly for your sake I'm inviting mostly English people who aren't in their dotage." "It's very good of you, Leon." He made a sound of impatience. "Isn't it time you realised that you're not a visitor here? You and the boy are my kin - you belong here with me." The growling sound came into his voice. "God knows I've given in to you more often than I've given in to anyone before - man or woman. Because you were against it I've bought the boy few toys; and because you were afraid for the lamb I didn't insist that he go to the boxing, or take the day out yachting with those youngsters I told you about. In fact, I've left him alone for several days - but that doesn't mean I'm satisfied with the way he's shaping." "I'm afraid you never will be, because he's not your sort." "We'll see about that. Anyway,,. this cruise I mentioned. Lucille has promised me that she'll help you choose the clothes you'll need." "I've plenty of clothes." He lifted a warning finger. "You do as Lucille says. She's been on these trips and she knows the ropes. And there's something else." He spoke in slow, casual tones. "It seems you haven't hidden the fact that you dislike Lucille. The way you feel about people is your own business, but when your dislike becomes obvious to my friends, it becomes my concern. Next time you happen to be alone with Lucille you can think rude things if it helps you, but don't say them." Catherine folded the newspaper with unnecessary precision. There was a hot little blaze in her throat and a tightness in her chest. She

had wondered several times about that threat of Lucille's: "I'll make you sorry...." Apparently she was already getting to work on it. It wasn't Catherine's business, but she had to ask, "Are you going to marry Lucille?" He smiled cynically. "What have you got against her?" "My interest is purely selfish. How would it affect Timothy?" "Let me see now. I'd say it would hardly affect him at all. He'd still be scared of trees and ponies, and talk like a sloppy little girl. I doubt if Lucille could toughen him any more than you can. She'd try harder, but I'm afraid it's a man's job." Catherine didn't trust herself to answer that. Leon was in an awkward mood and she had no urge to fight it. Her lack of response must have surprised him a little, for he slanted her one of his characteristic looks from under his brows, and took his time before he spoke again. "Seeing that this is your first acquaintance with the Mediterranean you should get quite a kick out of the cruise. We usually go down as far as Marseilles, spend a few days there, touch Corsica, then Pisa or Genoa and back to Nice by way of Monte Carlo. We go ashore at about eight places, and you'll be the luckiest one among us, because you haven't seen them before. Does it appeal to you?" "Very much." "And do you want this cousin of yours along?" "I think he'd enjoy it."

"That's not what I asked. Don't run away with the notion that I can be fooled, Catherine. That man came here to ask you to marry him; it stood out ten miles. And if you don't believe me, ask Lucille. She saw the two of you driving in town yesterday afternoon, and told me on the telephone last night that she thought as I did." Lucille didn't think as Leon did - she thought as she imagined he wanted her to think. And sometimes, subtly, she slipped thoughts into his mind. Catherine had a feeling of Suffocation; thank heaven the woman wasn't here for lunch. "You must please yourself whether you invite Hugh," she said. "In any case, he might prefer to go touring by car while I'm away, It's ten minutes since Antoine rang the lunch bell. Shall we go in?" While they ate, Leon said very little. He had the morose expression of a man deep in his own slightly unpleasant reflections, and it occurred to her that though he often bullied her and occasionally even ranted and smashed his fists on the table, he had never before looked like this. Dourness suggested thoughts kept back and mulled over, and that wasn't like Leon. If anything, he was overkeen on saying exactly what was in his mind with a ruthless economy of words. He ordered coffee to be brought to the table, and said to Catherine, "As you haven't yet seen the yacht you might like to go down with me this afternoon - you and Tim." She thought quickly. This was the first time he had suggested taking the two of them out for the afternoon, and Timothy, drat it, was with Hugh. As well, she had promised to take Hugh to have tea with Yvette. At the back of her mind had lurked a determination not to stay at the Selliers' villa; she would persuade Yvette to come out with them.

"I'd like that," she said, still thinking, "but Timothy's out to lunch. We could pick him up, though." "Out where?" "With my cousin at the inn." Leon scowled. "That's quick work, isn't it? I suppose they get on famously together!" "Hugh is an uncle to Timothy." She pushed her cup away. "It just happens that I'd made arrangements for the afternoon, but I'll be most happy to call them off. Just give me half an hour." "Don't bother." He sounded sour and irritated. "Well, can we go tomorrow?" "I shall be out the whole day." "Please let me arrange it for this afternoon, then. I want to." He shrugged. "If you're not back by a quarter to three I'll go down alone." Unsmilingly she said, "I'll be back before then, you old tyrant." And she hurried out to the car.

When he drove with Leon, apparently Timothy sat in the middle of the front seat. He sat very still with his hands in front of him and his eyes directed rigidly towards the dashboard. Leon ignored him, and all he said to Catherine was, "Grand roads, these Corniches," as they began, to put on speed.

Catherine felt a little guilty about Hugh, but she was sure she had done the right thing. An afternoon away from the Villa Chaussy with Leon was something she and Timothy could not miss. More so as it was Leon's first attempt at sharing guardianship. Hugh had said, a little crossly, "I'm not telephoning explanations to a strange woman; she may have had one too many last night, but she still had a snooty look - and I don't care for women who wear tight slacks, either. The servant will answer, I suppose, and I'll give her a message for Mademoiselle Sellier. That's as far as I'll go." "Please say how very sorry I am," Catherine pleaded, as she frantically poured Timothy into his shorts, "and tell her I'll telephone her myself later on. I simply have to go now." "I'm sure your damned father-in-law has done this purposely, because it's my first day here." "I don't think so. He's difficult, but he's not small-minded. Bear with me just this once, Hugh." "I bear with you all right, bless you. But Verender..." He shook his head. "Go along, then. Don't speed." So here they were, looping round the cliffs in the Cadillac on a hazy afternoon that made the sea look pale. Driving with Leon was an unfamiliar experience, and she thought she had better let him start the conversation. But he seemed to be in no hurry, so she looked out at the little villages perched among the cliffs or scattered along the back of a beach, and felt a familiar thrill as Nice drew near. They drove into the old town, past narrow streets which were all steps and cobbles, flapping shutters and communal clothes-lines, and out on to one of the jetties towards the outer harbour. And

there she saw the yacht, Francette, lying off the jetty. It was white with a blue trim, the size of a small liner and very smart. "I didn't think it would be so big," she said. "It looks as if it would take a hundred people!" Leon braked. "There are eight double cabins and four single. All the rest is given over to dining-room and lounges. The kitchens and seamen's quarters are forward. There's a swimming-pool on the afterdeck, but we only use it when we're at sea for a couple of days. It's covered by a movable dance floor. What sort of sailor are you?" "Pretty good." "You'd better be, both you and the child. Let's go aboard." They went by launch, and climbed a neat iron staircase. To Catherine's relief a seaman carried Timothy aloft and Leon went ahead of her. She stepped on to the deck, to be greeted by an oldish man in a gold-braided white uniform. "This is Captain Bailey - retired from the Royal Navy. My daughter-in-law, George." Catherine made the appropriate rejoinder to the Captain's greeting. He bent and shook Timothy's hand, and the little boy looked up at him with a faintly worried air. "Do we have to go downstairs?" he asked. Captain Bailey smiled reassuringly. "You'll find it easier this time, old fellow. There was a strong wind and we pitched a bit when you came last time." To Catherine he explained: "He had a rocky ride down the companionway, but he managed it."

"Of course he managed it," said Leon shortly. "I'll take them round the ship, George. We'll all have tea together - say four-fifteen." Leon was proud of his yacht, and he had reason to be. Catherine had expected luxury, but not this polished magnificence. The cabins were large, air-conditioned and beautifully appointed, some in soft grey and pastel pink and others in white and sapphire. All had private bathrooms, radio, intercom and small built-in cocktail cabinet with its own freezing-unit. The dining-room was spacious and lofty with portholes on two sides and a dais opposite the main entrance. Leon said, "We don't take along any entertainers because it's a bore to have them around during the day. I mostly engage a dance band or local celebrities wherever we put in, just for the evening. Get a change of amusement that way." Then there were the lounges: one long main one furnished -in rose, black and turquoise which looked out over the decks on three sides, and a slightly smaller one which was soft gold and midnight blue. In this second, Leon explained, they had television in port and film shows at sea. A third, with a bamboo bar and multicoloured stools, was the cocktail lounge. "A rich man's floating playground," said Leon. "That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" "Yes. But you earned it yourself." "And I believe in spending money on such things. If there were no palaces or plush hotels, no casinos or luxury yachts, the world would be the poorer in spirit and quite without excitement. When we set sail in the Francette half the Nipois turn out to cheer. They enjoy the cruise vicariously, and they're there to welcome us back."

"It's a very beautiful ship," she said. And suddenly: "Where's Timothy? He was here a few minutes ago." "Let him roam," said Leon impatiently. "He's been here before." "He might look over the side." "There are hands working on deck. He'll be within sight of someone." Catherine felt as if all her nerves were beginning to twitch. "I'm sorry, but I just have to know. How can we find out where he is?" "We can go out on deck ourselves and walk round. This way," Catherine stepped out into the air, was blinded for a moment by the haze over the sea. She looked both ways, walked quickly ahead of Leon towards the foredeck and round to the port side. "No sign of him. Would he go below?" "I doubt it," with heavy sarcasm. "He took a real dislike to the companionway." "Then where can he be?" "Excuse me, sir," said a white-clad seaman in refreshing cockney. "Are you looking for the nipper? He's in Number Three lifeboat put him there meself." "Did he ask you to?" queried Catherine. "Yes, miss ... ma'am," with a surprised stare at the titian hair. "He's chattering away in there like a magpie." "Thank you. Thank you very much."

"What did I tell you?" murmured Leon, when the seaman had moved away. "He's got into the safest place he could find." "Where is Number Three lifeboat?" she demanded. "Leave him there. He got himself in, he must get himself out." "Where is it?" "Along here. But I forbid you to speak to him. You can watch, if you insist, but let him find his own way of getting out!" The tarpaulin-covered lifeboat hung about two feet from the deck, but its side was nearer five feet above deck-level. By standing on tiptoe Catherine could see moving bumps in the tarpaulin and Timothy was grunting, as though he were pacing, bent double. He began to speak, in small raucous tones. "Get off my ship! I won't allow no one but me on my ship. You hear me? I said get off my ship, all of you. You, too, Grandpa. Go on." Catherine gave an astonished laugh and backed away. Leon was gazing at the boat, his lip jutting, brows drawn together. "The cub!" he said. "What did he mean by that?" Unthinkingly, Catherine slipped her hand within his elbow and drew him with her. She was laughing soundlessly. "That's one up on you," she said. "He's giving you a piece of his mind, under cover. You should be proud; in his own baby way he's beginning to revolt. He's a bit late - you probably told your father where to get off when you were two - but better late than not at all. I think it's funny."

"You would. But if that boy had been properly brought up he wouldn't have to suffocate for his half-baked principles. Come back to the lounge. I'll tell someone to get him out!" Was that look in his face only vexation? Catherine couldn't be sure, though she knew he hadn't been in the least amused. Well, it served him right. There was nothing so shattering as a child's private reaction to tyranny. They sat in the lounge, but Catherine watched the opening while Leon talked with the Captain. And presently Timothy sidled in, pretending he'd been close all the time. He was slightly flushed and the fair bang of hair had slipped forward over his brow, but he looked very sweet and wholly innocent as he edged towards Catherine and landed on a chair. She saw him peer surreptitiously at red weals on both hands, and in a startled second she knew that he had insisted on getting himself out of the boat. Her own bluegreen eyes were large and expressive as she caught Leon's glance and held it. He looked very much as if he'd have liked to turn Timothy over and spank him. Tea was served by one of the French waiters, and after it the launch took the three of them to the jetty. They got into the car and drove back the way they had come. They were halfway home when Leon said, "Enjoy yourself, Tim?" "Yes, thank you, Grandpa," came the polite reply. "Did you look at the engines?" "No, Grandpa." "Where did you go when you left us?"

This disconcerted Timothy; he had decided his absence had gone unnoticed. "I walked a bit." "Is that all?" He considered the question, decided on diversionary tactics. "It was a very nice tea," he said, and turning his trusting glance upon Catherine. "Better than last time. Much better." Which Catherine thought was clever of him. They reached the villa at a little after six, and by seven Timothy, having forgone his afternoon nap, was under his cellular blanket, ready for sleep. Catherine changed quickly, looked at her watch and decided she ought to call Yvette. She picked up her telephone, asked the manservant for a line, and dialled. The voice that answered was not Marthe's or Yvette's. "Dr. Sellier." Her heart bumped. "Oh ... Philippe. This is Catherine Verender. May I speak to Yvette?" "She is not with you?" He sounded arctic. "Yvette told me at lunch that you and your cousin would be taking tea with her today." Catherine explained briefly, adding, "I am sure Hugh would have phoned her as he promised. Do you think she felt lonely and went out with her friends?" "'It is most unlikely. Last night she said she had finished with them." A pause. "It is a little disturbing that she should go out without speaking first with the maid, but almost certainly she is with Marcelle. Did you have something important to say to her?" "Just an apology."

"I will convey it for you." "Thank you. Goodbye." She dropped the receiver on to its stand. The brittle, happy mood she had contrived with Leon was smashed. She crossed to the dressing-table for a tissue, to wipe fingers which had gripped the telephone so tightly that they had perspired, and stood there looking at her tense features in the mirror. What was to be done about this feeling she had for Philippe Sellier? Just his voice, and she felt like this. Here at the villa she was too close to him, and yet it was impossible to get away. There was the projected cruise ahead, but it was likely to prove no more than a respite; she would have to come back, meet him again, often, with Marcelle as his promised wife, then as his wife in reality. There had been moments when Catherine had been sure that he felt some pull of attraction towards her; vice-like fingers on her shoulders, a sharp-drawn breath, a tightish, watchful smile. Well, he was a man; very much so. And She was probably a little different from other women he knew. A man is attracted to many women, but he marries only one. And the woman whom Philippe Sellier chose would certainly not be a widow with a son. She knew enough about him to be sure it was something he couldn't possibly live with - the knowledge of a previous marriage and the child to prove it. That small stirring of his emotions had been easily controlled; it might even have been the reason that he had become more overtly interested in Marcelle Latour. Or was she kidding herself? Perhaps she was no more to Philippe than the daughter-in-law of his rich friend, Leon Verender; certainly he had kept the wall securely between them, and she had

the conviction that She couldn't have breached it with all the feminine dynamite in the world at her disposal. It was only since knowing Philippe that she had become aware of the superficiality of her marriage with Ewart. Given the chance, her own love could have deepened, because of Timothy. But Ewart - he'd loved speed and publicity, and using his undoubted charm wherever it could get him what he wanted. His nature simply hadn't been big enough to encompass racing cars and marriage as well. Was it wrong to want so desperately to be adored and cherished? Not wrong, perhaps, but too much to hope for. Thank heaven for Timothy. Lucille was at the villa for dinner that night, expansive in manner and very beautiful in jade matt silk. As Leon would be occupied all day tomorrow, she commented over coffee in the salon, would it not be a good idea if Catherine came to Nice for shopping? "These clothes for the cruise, of course. I will telephone two of the fashion houses from my hotel early tomorrow morning, and have them arrange special parades for you at about noon and again at three-thirty. For Leon, they will concoct a trousseau within a few days!" Catherine protested, half-heartedly. Clothes, luxury cruises ... it was like planning a banquet without a guest of honour, or a wedding without a groom. There was a yawning emptiness. "It would be best to leave the little boy with a maid," Lucille stated calmly. "Unless he would be happier with your fiancé?" She snapped her fingers, looked confused. "How foolish! I meant your cousin. You must forgive me, Catherine. I saw you two, laughing

together as you drove, and you presented such a delightful picture that I quite forgot you are related. But it is second cousins, no?" "The boy will stay here with a maid," said Leon. Lucille flexed her powers a little. "But, Leon," winningly, "this man is his relation, and you will admit it is better for the child to be with a man than with a maidservant." "It won't hurt the boy to stay at home. Dean can watch him." She gave in gracefully, but Catherine sensed a hint of venom in the capitulatory shrug. Tomorrow was going to be exhausting. Quite early next morning she drove Timothy down to the auberge. Only one of the doors was open, and inside, looking benignly drowsy, the proprietor was rearranging his bottles and washed glasses after the night's trade. He disappeared behind a curtain and called, "Monsieur! You 'ave a veesee-tor!" and came back to smile again and continue his operations, a thumb swathed in a rather grubby teacloth contriving with lightning efficiency to put a shine on the glassware. Hugh appeared, looking more thickset than ever in a blue check Shirt and Bermuda shorts. He shepherded Catherine and Timothy outside and sat them on a rickety bench under a faded umbrella while he took a weather-beaten stool. He looked harassed, but Hugh was bound to look harassed in a country where English was a foreign tongue. Without preamble he said, "Gosh, what did you let me in for, yesterday? I've never had such a nerve-racking experience in my life!" "What happened?"

"I hate to think about it. She's a menace - Yvette Sellier." "Yvette? What sort of menace?" Hugh rubbed a hand round the back of his neck. "I telephoned her as you asked. She seemed to be in a mischievous sort of mood, so I was careful. First of all she asked me to go there alone for tea tried to be funny by saying I could bring the aubergiste as a chaperon, if I liked. I said I hadn't a car, so she told me of a man who hired his out occasionally." He shook his head, bewilderedly. "Well, the outcome was that I arrived there in this borrowed car." "Oh, dear. She was getting at you because she was bored." "I know that. I went there because she'd taken the mickey, and I intended to drink one cup of tea and firmly say goodbye. But she'd dressed herself up in a pink thing and said she would rather go out to tea. After that," with a shake of his head, "I seemed to be in her hands." "You should have tried to enjoy it. Yvette does sometimes behave like a precocious girl, but she's also an intelligent woman." "She had me foxed," he admitted with a sigh. "She knows this district and I don't. She told me we were travelling in a wide circle a short way in from the coast, but when we stopped for refreshment I found we were seventy miles inland from Pontrieux. I've never seen a woman take so much time over a cup of filthy chocolate and a macaroon! I've never heard a woman talk so much, either. Most of it I couldn't make head or tail of. Arty stuff." Catherine laughed a little at the picture of Hugh in the charge of a small, headstrong, effervescent woman. "She was getting at you. Yvette's not a very happy person, really. She's genuinely interested

in the arts, but it's not nearly enough for her restless brain - she ought to have married. What time did you get back to Pontrieux?" "At about a quarter to eight. She made me drop her outside their gate because she could see her brother in the porch. He came down to her - sounded hipped. And she had the nerve to say, 'I have been shopping in Cannes, cheri. Met some old friends and found it was so late that I came home by taxi.' Taxi!" he repeated explosively. "And that was the last straw." Catherine nodded understandingly. "Some time I'll tell you all about Yvette, and you'll feel as I do that she's missed out somewhere. Didn't you find her exciting?" "I found her unsettling," Hugh said uncomfortably. "I'm too set in my ways to handle a woman like her. I know I told you I like them different and perhaps exciting, but I don't care for them as different as she is. I must say she looked pretty marvellous, though - the dress was a great improvement on the jeans." "Did you arrange to see her again?" "I did not! It'll take me two or three days to get over the last lot, and by then she'll have forgotten I exist." He dismissed the subject on a long gusty breath. "What are we doing today?" "Nothing, I'm sorry to say, I'm booked till this evening, and Leon said that Timothy must stay at the Villa Chaussy. Tomorrow we'll take a picnic and explore. By the way, how would you like a threeweeks' cruise on a fabulous yacht?" "Not much," he said flatly. "I'm a rotten sailor and even if I weren't I'd be happier on a tugboat. Like a cold drink?" She couldn't stay long with him, but he seemed fairly happy to be left; he had some letters to write and had promised himself a climb

up the nearest mountain. Catherine drove back to the villa, left Timothy with Michael Dean and set out for Nice. The landmarks along the Corniche were becoming familiar. The crag that arched over the road, the rock which some wag had roughly chiselled into a man's head and ornamented with beard and spectacles, the sheer drop to the sea, with its fuzz of rockplants against the blue Mediterranean. It was a quarter to twelve when she stopped the car outside Lucille's hotel. And there was Lucille, talking her own particular brand of shop with the military-looking man Catherine had seen her with before. Both were after a moneyed marriage partner, according to Michael. Lucille took her seat, smiled magnanimously. "It is all arranged," she said. "First we go to a salon which is managed by a close friend of mine, and then we have lunch. This afternoon, Raoul Guise will show for you. You have already bought from Raoul, I believe; on the telephone this morning he told me you are his ideal figure and colouring - which means he has great respect for Leon's money!" Catherine wished she could fabricate some enthusiasm for the chase after the dernier cri, but what she lacked Lucille made up for. At the first lushly carpeted salon they chose two evening gowns and a cocktail dress. Lunch, which was apparently debited to the expense account of the salon, was taken in a small party at an exclusive restaurant. Then came the second showing, in the discreetly lighted lounge of the famous Raoul Guise. All day Catherine had felt dull and uninterested, but as the parade of slim women in sportswear and casual suits, summer cottons and light coats petered out, she began to revive. It was almost over.

"Blacks and white and vivid blues, madame! You will look exquisite!" Ugh. She wandered away from the artificially lighted half of the salon towards a window, and looked down upon the busy street. It was cool in here but hot out there, where shirt- sleeved messengers dodged among men and women in light suits and gay sleeveless dresses. Taxis zigzagged, a gendarme berated a careless pedestrian, two middle-aged Frenchmen talked fast into each other's faces, and a plump woman was nervously going through her handbag to find a coin for a newspaper. Lucille came beside Catherine, waving a pad of bills. "Your signature, Catherine, please. I have checked the details - they are correct." Catherine flicked over the three sheets of writing. "Did I buy all these? I'm sure I shan't need so much." Lucille shrugged. "It was Leon's orders. He will not question a single item, I assure you. Sign just there. Thank you, I will take this to Raoul and then we can go." Idly, Catherine watched her float across to the dapper little man who had raved so unselfconsciously about his own creations. Their heads went together, conspiratorially, but Catherine thought nothing of it till something swiftly changed hands between them a small piece of paper . . . a cheque? "Ah, so that is finished!" Lucille had turned and spoken loudly enough to be heard at some distance. "Let us go, Catherine. I am sure you are as worn as I." They went out into the late afternoon heat, found that Raoul's chauffeur had brought the primrose car from wherever it had been

parked, and gratefully sank into its comfortable privacy. Catherine drove down towards the Boulevard des Anglais. Within sight of her hotel, Lucille said: "Will you come in for a drink?" "No, thank you. I shall be glad to get home and take a bath." Lucille regarded her fixedly. "You continue to He very distant towards me, but I shall persevere. I do hope you are not still remembering my rash words that night in your room. Things are settling very well at the Villa Chaussy, and I wish to make my apologies for the things I said. I do not even remember them very clearly, so you will understand that I spoke in the heat of the moment." "It's not important." "But I wish the matter to be quite clear. I was naturally upset when you came into my life and Leon's nearly a year ago, and it took much self-discipline before I could accept you. For the last two or three years I have lived on my jewels, but they are almost gone and I have been anxious and apprehensive. All I asked of you was that you should not obstruct Leon's plans for the child. I was most pleased, last night, to hear that you three had gone together to the yacht. Thank you very much, Catherine." They were at the hotel, and Catherine braked. The woman must think her influence mighty strong, but there was no point in denying it. "I'm glad to have made you happy," she said coolly. "You have helped, I suppose," Lucille conceded, generously. "But I will tell you a secret. As you will have guessed, I have friends in

every magasin of importance here in Nice, and there is not much news which escapes me. I have heard that Leon has ordered a very beautiful diamond necklace for me." Her long, pink-tipped finger tapped the steering wheel and an exultant note sounded in her voice. "So I forgive you for monopolising his attentions for a while. The necklace can mean only one thing. We shall probably announce the date of our marriage during the cruise!" In a way it was a relief; she needn't wonder, uneasily, what Lucille would think up as a reprisal. "Congratulations," she said. "I hope you'll make Leon very happy." Lucille must have noticed the phrasing, but her outsize ego ignored it. She gathered her purse and gloves, said au revoir, and got out of the car. Catherine pushed over the gear lever and drew out into the coastal traffic. She didn't think much on the way home. The sky had hazed again and there was a golden glow over the trees and cliffs. The sea looked incredibly far away, an expanse of opaque blue glass stretching into infinity. Catherine wondered if it ever roared and tumbled; she had only seen it calm and dotted with red and white sails with an occasional liner on the horizon. At the villa she met Antoine, who told her that Timothy was up the garden with Michael Dean. After a moment's hesitation she made her way to the cottage, and found the two of them, Michael in a deck-chair with his eyes closed and Timothy chopping harmlessly at a massive oak with his toy axe. She kissed the top of the little fair head. Michael opened a bleary hazel eye and sat up. "Hi," he said. "Come to collect your offspring? You know, I never thought I'd degenerate into a baby-sitter. It's demoralising." "I won't do it again. How did you get on?"

"Oh, we've managed. What about you?" She raised an eyebrow. "A day among the fashion types with Lucille. Your guess would be right." "Sounds ghastly. Lucille has gone all chipper, hasn't she?" "She has. She knows about the necklace." "Trust Lucille. The jewellers were on the phone about it only this morning - they were anxious to know if the old man wanted Lucille's initials on the under-side of the platinum setting of the clasp. They do it sometimes for identification in case of theft. I've got to ask Leon about it. Wouldn't you think he'd have more sense than to marry that harpy?" "I don't know. You see lots of women of Lucille's age in Nice, but none so beautiful and poised as she is. Everywhere she goes people look at her." "You were there too. How do you know they weren't looking at you?" With his espadrille he hooked the deckchair back under the sloping roof of the cottage, and then sauntered with her to where Timothy sat sharpening his axe with a stone. "I suppose she thinks the old man will propose on the cruise?" Catherine nodded. "He must know she'll marry him for his money, and I dare say it's true that he wouldn't mind very much. She'd be a companion as. well as a model for mink and jewels, and very likely that's all he wants. I just wish she were honest, that's all." "You want too much. Lucille was born predatory and devious. But to give her her due, she's never taken anything but the most innocuous gifts from Leon."

Catherine drew in her lips. "That's her line, but who's to know what she does on the quiet? You know, I'm quite certain she accepted a rake-off from those dressmakers today. While I was there I daren't even ask the price of the things, and..." "That's funny," Michael broke in. "I have to handle your accounts and I noticed that some of the shops don't send the detailed slips only a statement for the total. I mentioned it to Leon and he said I wasn't to question anything you bought - just to pay for it." Catherine stared at him. "Michael, do you think she's ...?" "I'm darned sure of it! She's probably made a new evening gown, a cruising outfit and a fat cheque out of you today. Well, what do you know? She's rooking the old man before she's hooked him!" "Forget it, for heaven's sake. It makes me feel a bit sick." She smiled at him wanly. "Thanks again for looking after Timothy. Come on, darling. Poor Michael's had enough." "So long, pal," said Michael. "So long, pal," returned Timothy equably. "Be seeing you."

CHAPTER EIGHT THE summer cruise, apparently, had a threefold object. Leon could cool off at sea during some of the hottest weeks of the season, he could entertain in the way he liked best and his staff at the villa could take their annual leave en bloc. Michael Dean would be given a bonus of an air ticket to England and the French staff would receive extra money and Leon's good wishes. The odd thing was that, instead of being serene about the whole thing, as he usually was, Leon seemed almost to wish he hadn't set the plan in motion. For a couple of nights he had no guests at all and went to bed at the outlandish hour, for him, of ten-fifteen. The following day, Philippe arrived with Marcelle Latour for lunch. Catherine came upon them suddenly, on the terrace, where they were taking a drink with Leon. She greeted them and Philippe saw her seated, across the low table from himself, beside Leon. Marcelle, in modish black with a carved ivory necklace, looked like a sleds kitten. Her hair, which had been untidy for the bohemian set, had now been slicked back and cut shorter, giving shape and a certain elegance to her head and her long slim neck. "I trust you are well, madame?" she said, gently stressing the last word. "And your little son?" "He's very fit, thank you." And to Philippe, politely, "I hope Yvette is not missing her former companions too much?" "She will survive," he said, appraising her coolly. "You will have wine?" "I'll wait till lunch, thanks."

She sat back while Leon and Philippe exchanged a few items of interest. She couldn't think of a word to say to Marcelle, and the French girl looked into the distance with a smile on her lips, as if she didn't want her thoughts interrupted, anyway. They went indoors for lunch: consommé, langouste, veal pie, cold chicken, salad, fruit and several cheeses. Philippe served Marcelle and persuaded her to eat plenty. To Catherine he remarked with a trace of acid: "You have no appetite? Perhaps the mid-morning refreshment was a little heavy." Leon took this up at once. "Have you been out with that Manning fellow again?" "Yes," she answered evenly. "Do you mind?" "A lot you'd care if I did. Why don't you bring him here?" Catherine glanced pointedly towards Marcelle, who was busy with a peach, and replied, "I think you and he are best apart." "Is he coming on the cruise?" "I don't think so." "Well, that's something. But I don't want you building up a case for yourself, against me. The fellow can- come here if he wants to." "I'll tell him that." "And tell him in the right tone," growled Leon.

Philippe put in diplomatically, "You will be glad to get away, Leon. The heat has made you touchy. I am thinking of taking a holiday myself. My new partner is now acquainted with most of my patients, and this is the off-season in Nice; even the hospital has a bed or two to spare." "Well, my dear chap, go on the cruise with us! I can even rearrange the dates if you say the word." "I cannot be away for three weeks, my friend - two weeks at the most." "You could fly back after a couple of weeks, or join us a week late. Do your best, Philippe!" He shook his head. "I plan to see friends in Paris and Lille. Also, I have promised to drive Marcelle up to her home at Aix-enProvence if it can be managed. Another year, perhaps, Leon." "These days I hate putting things off. Getting old, I guess." He turned once more to Catherine. "We're sailing next Friday, if all goes well, and I propose giving a big party on Tuesday - sort of farewell, and to introduce you to the people who'll be on the yacht. You see that that cousin of yours is invited." "Very well." "And, Philippe, I'll expect you and Mademoiselle Latour. Your sister too, if she'll come." "Yvette will come," said Philippe, "and so will Marcelle. As for myself," with a shrug, "I am in the hands of my patients, but I will ask my partner to take over for the evening unless there is a late emergency on that day." He was silent for a moment, then said,

"Yvette is giving a small dinner party at our house tomorrow. I know you dislike going to the local villas in the evening, Leon