Chapter VII

Gerald, although he was in reality brimful of confidence in all his relations with the other sex, had sometimes a not altogether unattractive appearance of shyness. He stood bareheaded for a moment, looking up at Pauline.

“I am so sorry if I startled you,” he said. “I was looking for my sister. I know this is a favourite place of hers, and when I saw you standing there I rather jumped to the conclusion that you must be she.”

“Really?” Pauline replied. “Are we so much alike, then?”

“Not in the least,” he declared frankly.

“That seems to make your explanation a little insufficient, does it not?” Pauline remarked.

Gerald settled down to business.

“I know that I ought to have turned back,” he said, “but, after all, wasn’t it much more natural of me to come on? I have been trying, ever since I first saw you, to get some one to introduce me--we are, after all, as I have just discovered, to my great delight, neighbours--and this is the Riviera, not Berkeley Square. May I tell you that my name is Gerald Dombey, that my father and sister have the villa up there, and that, from the moment I saw you, I have been anxious to make your acquaintance?”

She looked at him in silence for a moment, half critically, half thoughtfully. There was nothing absolutely discouraging in her attitude, and yet Gerald somehow conceived the idea that this might not, after all, be so easy an affair as he had hoped.

“Are you used to enlarging your acquaintance in this manner?” she asked.

“I very seldom feel the desire to do so,” he assured her. “Don’t be annoyed, please. I am really quite a respectable person. I will call upon your aunt, if she will give me permission.”

For the first time Pauline smiled. It was rather a cold smile, but the fact that it was a smile at all was encouraging.

“I fancy that you had better dismiss that suggestion from your mind altogether,” she said. “My aunt does not receive here, and she certainly would not welcome you as a caller.”

“Why not?” Gerald enquired, a little perturbed.

“Because you are a young man,” Pauline replied. “There are two things which my aunt dreads more than anything else in life,--a bad throat for herself, and young men for me.”

“I don’t see how she can hope to keep young men away from you altogether,” Gerald declared. “You don’t mind my saying, do you, that you are the sort of girl whom young men would want to know?”

Her smile returned. She even laughed slightly, showing some very wonderful teeth.

“Really, you are a most singular person,” she observed. “Do all young Englishmen talk to casual acquaintances in this unrestrained fashion?”

Gerald was puzzled. Pauline was not altogether falling into line with the conclusions he had arrived at concerning her.

“I don’t know that I am very different from the others,” he said. “Tell me, what is your nationality?”

“Why should I tell you anything about myself?” she asked, a little coldly.

“It appeared to me that it might--er--help our acquaintance.”

“Have I acknowledged the acquaintance?”

“Well, you are talking to me, anyhow,” he pointed out, with a slight twinkle in his eyes.

“I scarcely see how I could help it,” she replied. “If you are really curious about my nationality, I will tell you that I have some French blood in my veins. France, however, is not my native country.”

“And you live--where?”

“Nowhere,” she answered, a little sadly. “At present we are wanderers--what you call in England adventurers.”

Gerald raised his eyebrows.

“That is scarcely the word,” he murmured.

“My aunt has a curious objection to meeting people upon our travels,” Pauline continued. “I myself find her aloofness sometimes a little tedious. That is why I am misbehaving to the extent of letting you talk to me.”

“Your aunt seems a very difficult person,” Gerald sighed. “I don’t see why I can’t make her acquaintance and ask you both out to dine.”

“Do not think of such things!” the girl enjoined hastily. “Before I say another word to you, promise me that you do not present yourself at the Villa or give any indication of knowing me, if we should meet at the Club or anywhere.”

“But why on earth not?” Gerald demanded. “If your aunt is such a stickler for propriety, surely I can find some one to present me?”

“If you do not promise me what I ask,” she threatened, holding her skirts in one hand and looking as though prepared to jump down from the rock, “I shall leave you at once.”

“I promise, of course,” he assented. “Meanwhile, may I be allowed to ask, as between us two,--do I know you or do I not?”

“We are complete strangers,” she declared.

“Accept my profound apologies for addressing you,” Gerald begged, with a low bow.

Pauline reflected for a moment.

“As a matter of propriety,” she said, “you certainly ought to leave me at once. As a matter of fact, I was about to propose something else.”

“Let me hear it, at any rate,” he insisted.

“I watched you drive up to your father’s villa in your car. Will you take me a little way in it?”

“Rather!” he assented eagerly. “Where shall I pick you up?”

“Outside the Villa gates,” she replied. “My aunt is absolutely certain to sleep for two hours. It is the only liberty I have during the day. Please go at once and fetch the car.”

She dismissed him with an imperative wave of the hand. As soon as he was out of sight, she jumped down from the rock, crossed the little strip of sand, and commenced her leisurely ascent to the Villa. Once or twice she laughed softly to herself.

It was an excursion which Gerald pondered on many times afterwards. Pauline had settled down in the low bucket seat by his side and leaned back with an air of absolute content. She had, in fact, the appearance of one enjoying a rare pleasure. As soon as Gerald slackened speed, however, with the idea of entering into conversation, she became curt and almost rude, and his proposition that they might take the higher road and have tea at Nice she promptly negatived. When, after an absence of about an hour and a half, they drew up at the gates of the Villa, she left him with the merest nod of farewell.

“You will come for another ride soon--perhaps to-morrow?” he asked anxiously.

She shook her head.

“I can make no plans,” she replied. “I should think it very improbable. I thank you so much for your kindness. Your car is quite wonderful.”

She walked away with the air of one who has conferred a great favour. Gerald drove slowly back to the Villa d’Acacia and joined his sister on the terrace.

“Do you know anything about the two women at the next villa, Mary?” he asked.

She looked up from her novel doubtfully.

“One never knows one’s neighbours here,” she answered. “I saw them driving, the other day--a strange-looking old lady and a very good-looking girl. Isn’t there something queer about them, or is it my fancy?”

“There is something unusual,” Gerald replied. “They seem curiously indisposed to forming acquaintances, which is odd in a place like this. I happened to be talking to the younger woman for a few minutes. She gave me the impression, somehow, that they were people of greater consequence than their manner of living here would indicate.”

“I expect I am uncharitable,” Mary observed. “An elderly lady with no friends, who takes a rather beautiful young woman about with her to public places, does certainly invite comment, doesn’t she? Tell me about your little protégée?”

“We lunched with her, Chris and I,” Gerald replied.

“Goodness gracious! Where?”

“At Ciro’s. We bought her some clothes at Lénore’s, this morning.”

Lady Mary lit a cigarette and threw down her book.

“I am not the guardian of your morals, Gerald,” she observed drily; “a girl, nowadays, has all she can do to look after her own--but I honestly think you ought to send that child back to her people.”

“Too brutal,” he replied. “They wanted to marry her to some horrible old man.”

“Whatever the position was, your interference was most uncalled for,” his sister declared. “As for Christopher, I am really surprised at him. Where is he this afternoon, by-the-by?”

“I left him with Myrtile,” Gerald replied. “You’d better talk to him. He’s been lecturing me all the time--kicked up a row, even, because I wanted to buy the child pretty clothes.”

The butler came out on to the terrace.

“Mr. Rushmore has telephoned from the tennis club, my lord, to know if you and her ladyship will make up a set. They are waiting now for a reply.”

Mary rose to her feet.

“I am all for it, if you can, Gerald,” she declared.

“Tell Mr. Rushmore that we’ll be down as soon as we can change,” Gerald directed the butler. “You needn’t order a car. I’ll run you round in the coupé, Mary.”

“Shan’t be ten minutes,” his sister promised.

On their way up the hill, they passed Christopher and Myrtile. Gerald rather enjoyed his sister’s look of amazement.

“Doesn’t she look a topper!” he remarked, as he turned to wave his hand.

“She has an amazing flair for wearing clothes,” Mary admitted drily. “I think you two young men ought to be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves for what you are doing, and I shall just look forward to an opportunity of telling Christopher so.”

Gerald glanced at his sister’s profile and chuckled.

“Good old Chris!” he murmured. “I’ll let him know what’s coming to him!”