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  "Haven't I?"

  "No, indeed," replied Miss Amory. She sat on the settee, close to Lucia.

  "Perhaps you've caught a little chill, dear," she twittered anxiously. "Our English summers can be rather treacherous, you know. Not at all like the hot sun in Italy, which is what you're more used to. So delightful, Italy, I always think."

  " Italy," murmured Lucia with a faraway look in her eyes, as she placed her handbag beside her on the settee. " Italy -"

  "I know, my child. You must miss your own country sadly. It must seem such a dreadful contrast – the weather for one thing, and the different customs. And we must seem such a cold lot. Now, Italians -"

  "No, never. I never miss Italy," cried Lucia, with a vehemence that surprised Miss Amory. "Never."

  "Oh, come now, child, there's no disgrace in feeling a little homesick for -"

  "Never!" Lucia repeated. "I hate Italy. I always hated it. It is like heaven for me to be here in England with all you kind people. Absolute heaven!"

  "It's really very sweet of you to say that, my dear," said Caroline Amory, "though I'm sure you're only being polite. It's true we've all tried to make you feel happy and at home here, but it would be only natural for you to yearn for Italy sometimes. And then, not having any mother -"

  "Please – please -" Lucia interrupted her, "do not speak of my mother."

  "No, of course not, dear, if you'd rather I didn't. I didn't mean to upset you. Shall I get you some smelling-salts? I've got some in my room."

  "No, thank you," Lucia replied. "Really, I'm perfectly all right now."

  "It's no trouble at all, you know," Caroline Amory persisted. "I've got some very nice smelling-salts, a lovely pink colour, and in the most charming little bottle. And very pungent. Sal ammoniac, you know. Or is it spirits of salts? I can never remember. But anyway, it's not the one you clean the bath with."

  Lucia smiled gently, but made no reply. Miss Amory had risen, and apparently could not decide whether to go in search of smelling-salts or not. She moved indecisively to the back of the settee and re-arranged the cushions.

  "Yes, I think it must be a sudden chill," she continued. "You were looking the absolute picture of health this morning. Perhaps it was the excitement of seeing this Italian friend of yours, Dr Carelli? He turned up so suddenly and unexpectedly, didn't he? It must have given you quite a shock."

  Lucia's husband, Richard, had entered the library while Caroline Amory was speaking. Miss Amory did not notice him, for she could not understand why her words appeared to have upset Lucia, who leaned back, closed her eyes and shivered.

  "Oh, my dear, what is it?" asked Miss Amory. "Are you coming over faint again?"

  Richard Amory closed the door and approached the two women. A conventionally handsome young Englishman of about thirty, with sandy hair, he was of medium height, with a somewhat thick-set, muscular figure.

  "Do go and finish your dinner, Aunt Caroline," he said to Miss Amory. "Lucia will be all right with me. I'll look after her."

  Miss Amory still appeared irresolute.

  "Oh, it's you, Richard. Well, perhaps I'd better go back," she said, taking a reluctant step or two in the direction of the door leading to the hall. "You know how your father does hate a disturbance of any kind. And particularly with a guest here. It's not as though it was someone who was a close friend of the family."

  She turned back to Lucia.

  "I was just saying, dear, wasn't I, what a very strange thing it was that Dr Carelli should turn up in the way he did, with no idea that you were living in this part of the world. You simply ran into him in the village, and invited him here. It must have been a great surprise for you, my dear, mustn't it?"

  "It was," replied Lucia.

  "The world really is such a very small place, I've always said so," Miss Amory continued. "Your friend is a very good-looking man, Lucia."

  "Do you think so?"

  "Foreign-looking, of course," Miss Amory conceded, "but distinctly handsome. And he speaks English very well."

  "Yes, I suppose he does."

  Miss Amory seemed disinclined to let the topic go.

  "Did you really have no idea," she asked, "that he was in this part of the world?"

  "None whatsoever," replied Lucia emphatically.

  Richard Amory had been watching his wife intently. Now he spoke again.

  "What a delightful surprise it must have been for you, Lucia," he said.

  His wife looked up at him quickly, but made no reply. Miss Amory beamed.

  "Yes, indeed," she continued. "Did you know him well in Italy, my dear? Was he a great friend of yours? I suppose he must have been."

  There was a sudden bitterness in Lucia's voice.

  "He was never a friend," she said.

  "Oh, I see. Merely an acquaintance. But he accepted your generous invitation to stay. I often think foreigners are inclined to be a little pushing. Oh, I don't mean you, of course, dear -" Miss Amory had the grace to pause and blush. "I mean, well, you're half English in any case."

  She looked archly at her nephew, and continued, "In fact, she's quite English now, isn't she, Richard?"

  Richard Amory did not respond to his aunt's archness, but moved towards the door and opened it, as though in invitation to Miss Amory to return to the others.

  "Well," said that lady as she moved reluctantly to the door, "if you're sure I can't do anything more -"

  "No, no." Richard's tone was as abrupt as his words as he held the door open for her. With an uncertain gesture and a last nervous smile at Lucia, Miss Amory left.

  Emitting a sigh of relief, Richard shut the door after her and came back to his wife.

  "Natter, natter, natter," he complained. "I thought she'd never go."

  "She was only trying to be kind, Richard."

  "Oh, I dare say she was. But she tries a damn sight too hard."

  "I think she's fond of me," murmured Lucia.

  "What? Oh, of course." Richard Amory's tone was abstracted. He stood observing his wife closely. For a few moments there was a constrained silence. Then, moving nearer to her, Richard looked down at Lucia.

  "You're sure there's nothing I can get you?"

  Lucia looked up at him, forcing a smile.

  "Nothing, really, thank you, Richard. Do go back to the dining-room. I really am perfectly all right now."

  "No," replied her husband. "I'll stay with you."

  "But I'd rather be alone."

  There was a pause. Then Richard spoke again, as he moved behind the settee. "Cushions all right? Would you like another one under your head?"

  "I am quite comfortable as I am," Lucia protested. "It would be nice to have some air, though. Could you open the window?"

  Richard moved to the French windows and fumbled with the catch.

  "Damn!" he exclaimed. "The old boy's locked it with one of those patent catches of his. You can't open it without the key."

  Lucia shrugged her shoulders.

  "Oh, well," she murmured, "it really doesn't matter."

  Richard came back from the French windows and sat in one of the chairs by the table. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs.

  "Wonderful fellow, the old man. Always inventing something or other."

  "Yes," replied Lucia. "He must have made a lot of money out of his inventions."

  "Pots of it," said Richard gloomily. "But it isn't the money that appeals to him. They're all the same, these scientists. Always on the track of something utterly impracticable that can be of no earthly interest to anyone other than themselves. Bombarding the atom, for heaven's sake!"

  "But all the same, he is a great man, your father."

  "I suppose he's one of the leading scientists of the day," said Richard grudgingly. "But he can't see any point of view except his own." He spoke with increasing irritation. "He's treated me damned badly."

  "I know," Lucia agreed. "He keeps you here, chained to this house, almost as though you were a prisoner. Why did he make
you give up the army and come to live here?"

  "I suppose," said Richard, "that he thought I could help him in his work. But he ought to have known that I should be of no earthly use to him in that way. I simply haven't got the brains for it."

  He moved his chair a little closer to Lucia and leaned forward again.

  "My God, Lucia, it makes me feel pretty desperate, sometimes. There he is, rolling in money, and he spends every penny on those damned experiments of his. You'd think he'd let me have something of what will be mine someday, in any case, and allow me to get free of this place."

  Lucia sat upright.

  "Money!" she exclaimed bitterly. "Everything comes round to that. Money!"

  "I'm like a fly caught in a spider's web," Richard continued. "Helpless. Absolutely helpless."

  Lucia looked at him with an imploring eagerness.

  "Oh, Richard," she exclaimed. "So am I."

  Her husband looked at her with alarm. He was about to speak when Lucia continued, "So am I. Helpless. And I want to get out."

  She rose suddenly and moved towards him, speaking excitedly. "Richard, for God's sake, before it's too late, take me away!"

  "Away?" Richard's voice was empty and despairing. "Away where?"

  "Anywhere," replied Lucia with growing excitement. "Anywhere in the world! But away from this house. That's the important thing, away from this house! I am afraid, Richard, I tell you I'm afraid. There are shadows -" she looked over her shoulder as though she could see them "- shadows everywhere."

  Richard remained seated. "How can we go away without money?" he asked. He looked up at Lucia and continued, bitterly, "A man's not much good to a woman without money, is he, Lucia? Is he?"

  She backed away from him. "Why do you say that?" she asked. "What do you mean?"

  Richard continued to look at her in silence, his face tense yet curiously expressionless.

  "What's the matter with you tonight, Richard?" Lucia asked him. "You're different, somehow -"

  Richard rose from his chair. "Am I?"

  "Yes – what is it?"

  "Well -" Richard began, and then stopped. "Nothing. It's nothing."

  He started to turn away from her, but Lucia pulled him back and placed her hands on his shoulders. "Richard, my dear -" she began. He took her hands from his shoulders.

  "Richard," she said again.

  Putting his hands behind his back, Richard looked down at her.

  "Do you think I'm a complete fool?" he asked. "Do you think I didn't see this old friend of yours slip a note into your hand tonight?"

  "Do you mean you thought that -"

  He interrupted her fiercely. "Why did you come out from dinner? You weren't feeling faint. That was all a pretense. You wanted to be alone to read your precious note. You couldn't wait. You were nearly mad with impatience because you couldn't get rid of us. First Aunt Caroline – then me." His eyes were cold with hurt and anger as he looked at her.

  "Richard," said Lucia, "you're mad. Oh, it's absurd. You can't think I care for Carelli! Can you? Can you, really? My dear, Richard, my dear – it's you. It's nobody but you. You must know that."

  Richard kept his eyes fixed on her. "What is in that note?" he asked quietly.

  "Nothing – nothing at all."

  "Then show it to me."

  "I – I can't," said Lucia. "I've destroyed it."

  A frigid smile appeared and disappeared on Richard's face.

  "No, you haven't," he said. "Show it to me."

  Lucia was silent for a moment. She looked at him imploringly.

  Then, "Richard," she asked, "can't you trust me?"

  "I could take it from you by force," he muttered through clenched teeth, as he advanced a step towards her. "I've half a mind -"

  Lucia backed away with a faint cry, her eyes still on Richard's face as though willing him to believe her. Suddenly he turned away.

  "No," he said, as though to himself. "I suppose there are some things one can't do."

  He turned back to face his wife. "But, by God, I'll have it out with Carelli."

  Lucia caught his arm with a cry of alarm. "No, Richard, you mustn't. You mustn't. Don't do that, I beg you. Don't do that."

  "You're afraid for your lover, are you?" sneered Richard.

  "He's not my lover," Lucia retorted fiercely.

  Richard took her by the shoulders. "Perhaps he isn't – yet," he said. "Perhaps he -"

  Hearing voices outside in the hall, he stopped speaking. Making an effort to control himself, he moved to the fireplace, took out a cigarette-case and lighter, and lit a cigarette.

  As the door from the hall opened and the voices grew louder, Lucia moved to the chair Richard had recently vacated, and sat. Her face was white, her hands clasped together in tension.

  Miss Amory entered, accompanied by her niece Barbara, an extremely modern young woman of twenty-one.

  Swinging her handbag, Barbara crossed the room towards her.

  "Hello, Lucia, are you all right now?" she asked.

  Chapter 3

  Lucia forced a smile as Barbara Amory approached her. "Yes, thank you, darling," she replied. "I'm perfectly all right. Really."

  Barbara looked down at the beautiful black-haired wife of her cousin. "Not broken any glad tidings to Richard, have you?" she asked. "Is that what it's all about?"

  "Glad tidings? What glad tidings? I don't know what you mean," protested Lucia.

  Barbara clasped her arms together and made a rocking motion as though cradling a baby. Lucia's reaction to this pantomime was a sad smile and a shake of the head. Miss Amory, however, collapsed in horror onto a chair. "Really, Barbara!" she admonished.

  "Well," said Barbara, "accidents will happen, you know."

  Her aunt shook her head vigorously. "I cannot think what young girls are coming to, nowadays," she announced to no one in particular. "In my young days we did not speak flippantly of motherhood, and I would never have allowed -" She broke off at the sound of the door opening, and looked around in time to see Richard leave the room.

  "You've embarrassed Richard," she continued, addressing Barbara, "and I can't say I'm at all surprised."

  "Well, Aunt Caroline," Barbara replied, "you are a Victorian, you know, born when the old Queen still had a good twenty years of life ahead of her. You're thoroughly representative of your generation, and I dare say I am of mine."

  "I'm in no doubt as to which I prefer -" her aunt began, only to be interrupted by Barbara, who chuckled and said, "I think the Victorians were too marvellous. Fancy telling children that babies were found under gooseberry bushes! I think it's sweet."

  She fumbled in her handbag, found a cigarette and a lighter, and lit the cigarette. She was about to begin speaking again when Miss Amory silenced her with a gesture.

  "Oh, do stop being silly, Barbara. I'm really very worried about this poor child here, and I wish you wouldn't make fun of me."

  Lucia suddenly broke down and began to weep. Trying to wipe the tears from her eyes, she said between sobs, "You are all so good to me. No one was ever kind to me until I came here, until I married Richard. It's been wonderful to be here with you. I can't help it, I -"

  "There, there," murmured Miss Amory, rising and going to Lucia. She patted her on the shoulder. "There, there, my dear. I know what you mean – living abroad all your life – most unsuitable for a young girl. Not a proper kind of upbringing at all, and of course the continentals have some very peculiar ideas about education. There, there."

  Lucia stood up and looked about her uncertainly. She allowed Miss Amory to lead her to the settee, and sat at one end while Miss Amory patted cushions around her and then sat next to her. "Of course you're upset, my dear. But you must try to forget about Italy. Although, of course, the dear Italian lakes are quite delightful in the spring, I always think. Very suitable for holidays, but one wouldn't want to live there, naturally. Now, now, don't cry, my dear."

  "I think she needs a good stiff drink," suggested Barbara, sitting
on the coffee-table and peering critically but not unsympathetically into Lucia's face. "This is an awful house, Aunt Caroline. It's years behind the times. You never see the ghost of a cocktail in it. Nothing but sherry or whisky before dinner, and brandy afterwards. Richard can't make a decent Manhattan, and just try asking Edward Raynor for a Whisky Sour. Now what would really pull Lucia around in no time would be a Satan's Whisker."

  Miss Amory turned a shocked countenance upon her niece. "What," she inquired in horrified tones, "might a Satan's Whisker be?"

  "It's quite simple to make, if you have the ingredients," replied Barbara. "It's merely equal parts of brandy and créme de menthe, but you mustn't forget a shake of red pepper. That's most important. It's absolutely super, and guaranteed to put some pep into you."

  "Barbara, you know I disapprove of these alcoholic stimulants," Miss Amory exclaimed with a shudder. "My dear father always said -"

  "I don't know what he said," replied Barbara, "but absolutely everyone in the family knows that dear old Great-Uncle Algernon had the reputation of being a three-bottle man."

  At first Miss Amory looked as if she might explode, but then the slight twitch of a smile appeared on her lips, and all she said was, "Gentlemen are different."

  Barbara was having none of this. "They're not in the least different," she said. "Or at any rate I can't imagine why they should be allowed to be different. They simply got away with it in those days." She produced from her handbag a small mirror, a powder-puff and lipstick. "Well, how do we look?" she asked herself. "Oh, my God!" And she began vigorously to apply lipstick.

  "Really, Barbara," said her aunt, "I do wish you wouldn't put quite so much of that red stuff on your lips. It's such a very bright colour."

  "I hope so," replied Barbara, still completing her makeup. "After all, it cost seven and sixpence."

  "Seven shillings and sixpence! What a disgraceful waste of money, just for – for -"

  "For 'Kissproof,' Aunt Caroline."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "The lipstick. It's called 'Kissproof.'"

  Her aunt sniffed disapprovingly. "I know, of course," she said, "that one's lips are inclined to chap if one has been out in a high wind, and that a little grease is advisable. Lanoline, for instance. I always use -"