"A little, Madam."

"Then you shall join us ... after dinner. Mrs. Greenacre cannot be with us."

"Oh ..." began Melisande.

"You need not be afraid. We shall not expect you to dress. I shall explain to our guest who you are. Nothing will be expected of you but to play your hand."

"But ..."

"You'll do as you're asked, of course."

Melisande went to her room to wash. She always locked the door whenever she went in. She had done so since Mr. Lavender had knocked one evening to ask how she was. He had fancied she looked tired, he had said. It had been difficult to keep him on the right side of the door; but she had done so with quiet dignity and great determination.

After that she always turned the key in the lock and, if there should be a knock, asked who was there before opening the door.

She washed thoughtfully and combed her hair.

She had been three weeks with the Lavenders; that meant it was nine weeks since that day when she had walked out of Fenella's house. She wondered whether they had tried to find her. Fenella would have been so hurt; so would Polly. As for her father, he would probably be glad, for now that she had run away she had solved his problem for him. He could not blame himself for what happened to an illegitimate daughter who spurned his care and refused to marry the very respectable young lawyer whom he had provided for her. Genevra ? Clotilde ? They would not care deeply. She had been but the companion of a few weeks in their eventful lives.

She had to forget what had happened. She had been reading the papers every day since the accident. Surely if Caroline had died she would have seen some notice to this effect. She had never asked Fermor where he and Caroline lived, but it should not be insuperably difficult to find out. But if she did and went to the house to enquire of the servants, she might meet Fermor or Caroline and that was what she must avoid.

She heard a carriage draw up outside the house. This would be to-night's guest. She went to the window and looked down. She could not see very clearly the person who stepped from the carriage, but she did see that it was a man who appeared to be about Mr. Lavender's age.

She was glad that she did not have to join them at dinner. She was indeed not looking forward to the evening at all. Mrs. Lavender would be rude to her, she was sure, and she was beginning to resent such treatment.

Now, when the woman bullied her, retorts rose to her lips. Surely that was a sign that she was growing away from her nightmares and was feeling a stirring of interest in her new life.

She was wearing the black and green dress bought in Paris. It was less fashionable now, and she had worn it scarcely at all while she was at Fenella's. While she was at Mrs. Chubb's she had bought herself two cheap gowns for daily wear—one lilac colour, the other grey.

She combed her hair and parted it in the centre so that it fell in ringlets over her shoulders.

She was feeling nervous when the summons came for her to go to the drawing-room.

"This is my maid, Martin, Mr. Randall. I have sent for her to make a fourth at whist. So tiresome that Mrs. Greenacre could not come."

He rose and, taking Melisande's hand, bowed over it.

He was tall and handsome, with dark hair and dark eyes; Melisande liked him at once because his smile was sympathetic with no hint of patronage in it.

"I am afraid," said Melisande, "that I shall be a poor player. I have played very little."

The young man—who now seemed younger than Mr. Lavender —smiled again. "I am sure Mr. Lavender and I will forgive you if you trump our aces ... eh, Archibald?"

Archibald mumbled that he was not sure about that. He was very cautious under the eye of Mrs. Lavender; but, when he was sure she was not watching him, he smiled at Melisande in a manner to indicate that he did not mean what he said.

"You may put up the card table, Martin," said Mrs. Lavender.

Mr. Randall helped her to do this.

"There is no need for you to trouble," said Mrs. Lavender. "I am sure Martin can manage."

"It is a pleasure," said Mr. Randall.

They sat round the table and the cards were dealt. Melisande blundered again and again. She had played very little at Trevenning and on those rare occasions when the cards had been brought out at Fenella's it was usually in order to tell fortunes, and when whist was played it was never seriously.

She apologized nervously. "I'm afraid Fm not very good ..."

Mrs. Lavender said with a short laugh: "You are right there, Martin. I'm glad you're not my partner."

Mr. Randall, whose partner Melisande was, hurried to defend her. "I'm not at all sure that was not finesse, Mrs. Lavender. Not sure at all. You wait and see."

It was very good of him, Melisande thought; she was aware that he was guiding her, seeking all the time to cover up her mistakes.

When Sarah brought in tea and biscuits for refreshment, which, Mrs. Lavender prided herself, was so fashionable, she told Melisande to pour out.

"Why," said Mrs. Lavender, scrutinizing the tray. "Sarah has brought four cups."

Melisande felt suddenly angry. It was because—she realized afterwards—Mr. Randall with his quiet consideration had restored her self-respect. Her spirits were reviving. She would not endure further insults. If necessary she would leave Mrs. Lavender and find someone else who needed a lady's maid.

"You need have no fear, Mrs. Lavender," she said quietly but deliberately, "I did not intend to pour tea for myself. I quite understand that I was ordered to attend merely because a guest failed to appear. I have no more wish to drink tea with you than you have to see me do so."

Mrs. Lavender gasped. Melisande, with trembling hands, poured the tea and handed it round.

Both men were watching her, Mr. Lavender uneasily, Mr. Randall admiringly. In Mrs. Lavender's cheeks two spots of colour burned.

She was unsure how to act. Her first impulse was to tell Melisande to go and pack her bag; but she did not want to lose her. It gave such prestige, to employ a French maid; besides the girl was clever in her way and she would be useful on occasions like this, for she was undoubtedly as well-bred as Mrs. Lavender's guests. There was satisfaction in possessing such a maid.

She said: "Mr. Randall, we must forgive Martin. She is French, you know. That means she does not always understand our English ways."

"I am sure," said Mr. Lavender, "that Martin means no harm. I am quite sure of that."

Mr. Randall looked at her with admiration and pity.

"Well," said Mrs. Lavender, "we'll overlook your behaviour, Martin. You may pour yourself tea."

"Thank you, Mrs. Lavender, but I do not wish for it."

Again there was a brief silence. Melisande became aware that she was beginning to relish the situation. She had a feeling of glorious indifference to consequences. I shall be dismissed, she thought; and I do not care. There must be many employers in the world who are no worse than Mrs. Lavender, and surely some who are much better.

"She does not like our English customs," said Mrs. Lavender. "They say the French do not drink tea as we do."

"It is not the customs I do not like," said Melisande. "It is the Martin," said Mrs. Lavender, her face now purple. "There is no need for you to remain."

"Then," said Melisande, "I will say good night."

Mr. Randall was at the door to open it for her.

She sailed through. She ran up the stairs to her attic. She locked the door, sat on the bed and laughed. She thought: How Genevra would have enjoyed that! Then a terrible longing came over her to be with Genevra again, to laugh with her, to exchange this sparsely furnished little attic for her luxurious apartments at Fenella's, to wear beautiful clothes, to chatter in Fenella's salon, and above all to see Fermor there.

Then she threw herself on to the bed and laughed until she cried.

But she must pull herself together. She got up and bathed her face. After the visitor had gone she would be needed to help her mistress prepare for bed. Mrs. Lavender should not have the pleasure of seeing that she had shed tears.

She would, of course, be given notice to leave. Very well, she would have to find herself something this time. And somehow she would make a new life for herself. She would live again.

Being alive again meant a return of pride, a return of hope. She indulged in day-dreams now, as she had when she was a child at the Convent.

She was Melisande to whom wonderful things must happen. She had been hurt and she had allowed that hurt to crush her. She remembered the little punishments at the Convent, which had seemed enormous at the time. She remembered the first time she had been sent to the sewing-room and kept there for three hours. It had seemed a lifetime. And in the same way now, a few weeks seemed a lifetime. But the gloom always passed and the brightness broke through ... as it would now.

She had several happy dreams, but none of them could be carried to a satisfactory conclusion. None could be complete in itself. One was that Sir Charles repented of his pride and came to claim her; he took her back to live in Cornwall. But how could she go on with that dream ? What of Caroline, his daughter ? Was Caroline alive ? Was Caroline dead? Then she dreamed that she was married to Fermor. But where was Caroline in that dream? Caroline must always be there; Caroline alive made their union impossible. Did Caroline dead make it equally so? Sometimes she thought of Leon— not the Leon she remembered, tortured by a terrible tragedy, furtively looking about him as it seemed for the accusing eyes of those who believed him guilty of a callous deed, but a Leon who was a combination of himself, Fermor, and her new acquaintance Thorold Randall. Sometimes she dreamed that Fenella found her and took her back, and that in the salon she met a stranger; he was this new combination of Fermor, Leon and Thorold Randall.