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“But really it seems silly for you to do that, Anthony,” Mrs. Trevose said briskly. “I mean, George passes the house—”

“So he does,” Anthony agreed blandly. “But as I want to have a word with Sir Geoffrey, it will suit me very well to go with Rosemary.”

“There! And I thought it was for the sake of my bright eyes! ” Rosemary murmured mockingly under her breath.

Anthony didn’t answer, but he looked her straight in the eyes, and Fenella, intercepting the look, saw in his face an expression of such tender compassion that no woman could possibly misunderstand its message. Certainly Fenella couldn’t.

Anthony still loved Rosemary as much as he had ever done. Perhaps even more. And Rosemary knew it though she might not feel the same way about him. Or did she? One couldn’t tell, for her eyes dropped and her face became completely expressionless.

Fenella swallowed a lump in her throat and forced the scalding tears to remain unshed. She had known from the way in which Anthony had accepted the news of her engagement to Martin that he didn’t love her, but there hadn’t been quite the same finality about it that there was now. She was honest with herself. Anthony had frequently looked at her with real affection in his expression, but never with so much as a hint of the quality that the look he had given Rosemary held—a look that a man can give to one woman only—the woman he loves.

And how trivial and shabby that look had made her own dreams seem! Just a fairytale spun out of her own imagination with nothing real about it—

An arm slipped through hers and held closely.

“I was wondering, as the house won’t be closed for the night until Trevose returns, whether anyone would mind if you and I went for a stroll in the garden,” Martin’s voice murmured in her ear. “That is, if you’d like to—”

The warm, human contact, the comforting knowledge chat at least
someone
wanted her company acted like a tonic to Fenella. She felt the sense of loneliness and desolation ebb away and she turned to Martin with a smile.

“Yes, let’s do that!" she said eagerly.

Goodnights were said, the sound of the two cars died away in the distance, and with a final injunction to Fenella not to stay out so long that she caught a chill, Mrs. Trevose went up to her room.

Fenella gave a sigh of relief of which, Martin was sure, she was quite unaware. He picked up the little shawl which Mrs. Trevose kept at hand for use in the cool of the evening and wrapped it round Fenella's shoulders. Instantly she resisted him.

“Oh, don’t fuss, Martin !" she protested. “Fm as warm as toast. Besides, I must look an absolute grandmother in it!''

“A very charming little grandmother,'' Martin told her, holding the shawl firmly in place. “And you know, that's just what you will be, one of these days, Fenella. Rosemary is prettier than you are now, but you've got better bones that she has. You’ll still have an elegant charm when she’s very definitely faded!''

“How nice!” Fenella said with bitter irony. “But she will have had—”

Martin put his hand over her mouth.

“No, you’re not to say that,'' he said gently. "You don’t know what the future holds for her or for you, so it’s better not to count your chickens—or other people’s —before they hatch. And now let’s go out for that walk or Trevose will be back before we've started.''

He drew back one of the long curtains and was just going to stand aside for Fenella to precede him when something caught his eye and he stooped to pick it up.

“That’s odd!” he commented, frowning.

“What is it?” Fenella asked, and Martin held out his hand. On the palm of it was a small lump of earth partially flattened to one side as if it had been trodden on. “How on earth did that get there? The grass is as dry as a bone—we couldn’t have brought it on our shoes.”

“That’s what I was thinking,” Martin said grimly. “In any
case,
it looks to me more like a tiny clod from a garden bed. Yet none of us—besides, I was the last to come in and I could swear—” He gazed at his find for a moment and then, impatiently, tossed it away.

“Well, whatever the explanation, we won’t find the answer by staring at it,” he remarked, “so don’t let’s waste time—” He slipped his arm through hers and ran her down the few steps that led to the garden.

It was, Fenella thought wistfully, a night for lovers. The almost full moon swam serenely in a cloudless sky. The gentlest of summer breezes whispered among the trees and roses still perfumed the warm air. In the distance, they could hear the soft, rustling music of the sea as each wave broke gently on the pebbly beach and ran back with a little chuckling sound.

“
‘In such a night as this
—’ ” Martin quoted softly.

Fenella gave a little jump. He had come so near to her own thoughts as to be disconcerting.

“Hallo, surprised at me quoting Shakespeare?” he asked, amused.

“A little,” Fenella seized on the excuse he had offered so that she didn’t have to explain the real reason for her surprise. “I don’t know why, but somehow I thought you were too—too much of a realist to—to—” she stumbled to silence, unable to finish her sentence that she had begun without much thought because she realised how stupid it was to say such a thing to Martin, of all people!

“To enjoy the flights of other writers’ fancy?” Martin suggested. “If romance is no more than fancy. I wonder? What do you think, Fenella?”

“It’s real,” Fenella said in so low a voice that Martin had to stoop his head to hear her. “For some people— not for everybody."

“No? That’s rather a sad little philosophy, isn’t it?” he suggested gently. “I hope it’s not true for you, at any rate.”

Fenella didn’t answer and for some minutes they walked in silence along the path marked out with white flowers that were silver in the moonlight. It led to the gate opening on to the cliff path which had been the scene of their first meeting, and as if by mutual consent, they stopped walking.

For a time they stood side by side, gazing entranced at the silvery path of the moon along the blue-black sea, a path that if only one could travel along it must surely lead to one’s heart’s desire—

To Fenella the still, quiet beauty held sheer magic. Anything, she felt, could happen—

Martin’s hands fell gently on her shoulders. Unresisting, she let him turn her so that they stood face to face in the unearthly light.

“A night for lovers, indeed,” he said very softly. “And do you know, Fenella, I have a feeling that if we had met in different circumstances, that’s what we might have been! So in order not to miss the opportunity of a night like this, shall we pretend that we are and—” Gently yet irresistibly he drew her close and with a feeling of inevitability she felt the touch of his lips on hers in a kiss that was part of the magic which was all about them. It was happening, yet it had an unreal, dreamlike quality—

A small night animal scuttled past close to their feet and the spell was broken. Fenella, returning abruptly to a world of reality, drew back from Martin’s arms. Instantly he let her go, and without a word, they turned and walked back to the house.

To Fenella’s relief, Anthony had not yet returned. She didn’t want to see or talk to anyone tonight— perhaps least of all to Anthony. Martin came with her to the bottom of the stairs and for a moment they stood looking at one another as if neither quite knew what the moment demanded of them.

Then, very gently, Martin touched her hand with his.

“Sleep well! ” he said softly, and turned back to the drawing room to await Anthony’s return.

Fenella ran upstairs, crept past Mrs. Trevose’s room and gained the sanctuary of her room. Quickly she made her preparations for the night and then, pulling her curtains aside, gazed out into the night with eyes that were full of—dreams? Or realities? She didn’t know, and it didn’t seem to matter.

Fenella woke the next morning to a grey, wet world, and her spirits sank to zero.

Gone was the magic of the previous night and in its place was something approaching panic.

Just for a few moments, like actors on a well set stage, she and Martin had captured an illusion of reality. Martin had even said that in different circumstances they might have been in love, and as he had said it, she felt that he might indeed be right.

But now—her forehead knitted in perplexity—it was utterly impossible to understand how she could possibly have believed such a thing, no matter how briefly nor how bright the moon.

She was—always had been and always would be—in love with Anthony. What had happened last night had been no more than a little moon-madness, rather sweet while it lasted but having no durability.

Of that she was perfectly well aware. But was Martin? Or, even worse, did he appreciate that she quite understood how transient had been the emotion they had felt?

If he didn’t—would he think that she had welcomed his love-making? That she wanted—what was the phrase he had used?—to continue their “engagement” to its logical conclusion? And if that was what he did think how, after having let him kiss her like that
and
having responded to his kiss—would it be possible to do or say anything that would disillusion him?

She went downstairs to breakfast with her heart in her mouth, not sure if it would be better if she could have an opportunity of speaking to Martin alone at once or whether it would be better to postpone saying anything indefinitely.

When she reached the dining room the latter alternative seemed to be the more likely, for the room appeared to be empty.

Then, from under the table, Martin crawled out on all fours.

“Hallo, Fenella,” he said with the abashed grin of a small boy caught in the act. He deposited a slice of buttered toast on his plate. “Disgustingly messy habits I've got! And it would go butter side down, of course!”

“It always does," Fenella sympathised, her heart resuming its normal pace. One could hardly imagine a less lover-like greeting or a less romantic figure than Martin cut at the moment with his ruffled hair, his buttery fingers and that absurd schoolboy grin on his face! It was intensely reassuring and she felt her self-confidence returning as she said lightly: “But just think, it might have been marmalady as well!"

“So it might,” he agreed, and sat down as Fenella helped herself to bacon and eggs from the sideboard. “Incredible, a day like this after yesterday!” he remarked with a glance in the direction of the window.

Fenella looked at him quickly, not sure if he was really talking about the weather or if he was experiencing the same sense of anti-climax that she was. So she contented herself with saying: "Yes,” and left him to make what he could of that.

“However, there’s one advantage about it,” he went on resignedly. “Since I shan’t be tempted to go out, I may be able to settle to work, and it’s certainly time I did. I’ve still got a couple of chapters to deal with.”

So he had only been talking about the weather!

“Is that the one you want me to illustrate?” Fenella asked, and Martin nodded.

“Yes, if you’re still willing?”

“Why not?” she asked coolly, now completely mistress of herself. "You’ve still got to get your publisher’s agreement to the arrangement, haven’t you?”

“He’s agreed in principle that marginal illustrations would enhance the appeal of the book,” Martin explained. “But of course, he would want to see your work.”

“Of course,” Fenella agreed.

“So if you’ll read a bit of the manuscript so that we can decide what illustrations would fit in best, and then if you’d do a few specimens—?” Martin suggested in a very businesslike way.

“That sounds a good idea,” Fenella agreed. “More coffee?”'

“Please,'' Martin said absently. And then, rather urgently: “Fenella—?”

Fenella's hand shook sufficiently for the coffee pot to chink against the cup, but what Martin might have been going to say she never heard, for at that moment Anthony came into the room.

“Sorry I'm so late," he apologised. “Gomes of insufficient sleep, but honestly, last night was too good to stay indoors. So we took
Wild Rose
out.''

“We
?" Himself and Rosemary, of course!

“Yes, it was lovely, wasn't it?" Fenella said enthusiastically. “Martin and I went for a walk
—"

Anthony grinned.

“I know you did!" he said with a significance that brought the colour to Fenella's cheeks. “With a moon like that, one could see for miles! And that reminds me, Martin, with someone out after your blood, it might be an idea not to present such an admirable target as you did last night!"

Martin looked at him quickly and Anthony nodded.

"Yes, there was someone loafing about on the beach. If he'd had a gun—" he whistled softly but significantly.

Martin scowled.

“You know, I've taken chances before, but I’ve always known pretty well what they were likely to be. But here—! It's so hole-and-corner, so furtive! I suppose the fact of it is that it’s not premeditated. Just people grab any chance they see that they think will pay off—"

“Then my advice, if you want it is—don’t give them any chances," Anthony told him drily, helping himself from the sideboard. Then, as he saw that Fenella had finished her breakfast and was about to leave the room : “Oh, Fen—"

“Yes, Anthony?" She had paused at the sound of his voice, one hand on the door frame, and was looking at him over her shoulder.

“I’d be glad if you'd type some letters for me this morning—they’re rather urgent—"

“Fm sorry, Anthony, but I’ll be working for Martin this morning. Perhaps this afternoon—" And she shot out of the room before he had time to reply.

For a moment or two neither man spoke. Then Anthony put an abrupt question.

“Adair, is Fen really as good an artist as you make out—or are you just stringing her along to please her?”

Martin stared at him incredulously.

“Good heavens, man, are you blind?” he demanded. “She’s
damn
good! And how it comes about that you haven’t realised it and seen to it that she was encouraged passes my understanding! It’s been absolutely criminal, to my mind, the way her wings have been clipped wasting her time on your confounded letters and all the niggling household jobs that are everlastingly being found for her. It makes my blood boil! ”