footsteps paced up and down for a long time after that. Once she thought she caught the glow of a cigarette end in the darkness immediately below her, and she had the feeling that eyes were on her window, and watching it ... watching as if compelled!
‘Oh, Philippe!’ she whispered, and wanted to throw open her window and beg him to come in out of that petrifying cold, but as she had no real proof that he was out there she did nothing of the kind.
It was possible—very probable—that he was downstairs in the warmly lighted, sensuously heated salon with Lady Bembridge and Celeste ... Celeste, whom he was to marry!
It was even possible Lady Bembridge had gone to bed, and he was alone with Celeste! Celeste smelling like a Dior rose!
But she didn’t think so—perhaps because she couldn’t bear to think so!
By the time she went to bed at last she had begun to wonder about another woman who must once have figured quite prominently in Philippe de Chatignard’s life, and that was Denys Armand.
He had said that no suitable young woman of whom his family could approve had come his way. But Denys was free, and would definitely be considered suitable; and according to Hortense she and the Comte had once been very close friends indeed.
And it had been easy for Diana to guess, on the one occasion that she saw them together, that Denys was rather more than slightly interested in Philippe.
And she would make an elegant Comtesse. Why, then, hadn’t Philippe picked on her, instead of linking his whole future with someone like Celeste, who, although she could possibly make it for him, could also mar it ... badly!
The next day Denys—as if Diana’s thoughts of her the night before had given her the power to materialize unexpectedly—arrived at the chateau accompanied by Robert Sherman, the American friend of the Comte.
Apparently, as Madame Armand was a mutual friend Sherman had offered to give her a lift south as she too had been pressed by Philippe to stay at the chateau as soon as she could tear herself away from Paris and her elegant salon.
It was just before lunch that the car turned in under the archway and drew up before the windows that fronted the courtyard. Denys, looking like the very breath of Paris itself in a honey-gold suit of sheerest wool and a little honey-gold hat to match, climbed out of the rakish, sports-type car driven by the American, and fairly hurled herself upon Philippe.
‘It is so good to see you once more, cherie !’ she told him, as if it was at least a thousand years since they met. Her great dark eyes were radiant with her delight. ‘You told me I could come whenever I could manage it, and so here I am! Indebted to Mr. Sherman for a most entertaining drive!’
Mr. Sherman was one of those long-legged Americans who have literally to uncurl themselves when they emerge from a car, and he had very bright and amused blue eyes. His face was brown and relaxed, the mouth quirking up a little at the corners with humour, and although he was by no means good-looking, he was attractive. And possibly still on the right side of forty, Diana decided.
Celeste, when she emerged from the house and stood shyly behind her fiancé, took no notice of him at first; and then he turned to her deliberately and gripped her hand. He had very large hands, and hers looked very small swallowed up in one of his huge fists, that was brown like the rest of him, as if he spent a great deal of his time in the out-of-doors.
‘This is a pleasure!’ he declared, as he pumped her hand up and down and looked at her admiringly. ‘I don’t mind confessing that it was the thought that we would meet again that made me eager to accept the Comte’s invitation.’ He glanced sideways at the Comte, as if he thought it necessary to explain. ‘You can’t keep a flower like this shut away from the sun, you know, Comte! The world wants to see her ... appreciate her! And that’s what we people who produce motion pictures—or
‘Oh, Philippe!’ she whispered, and wanted to throw open her window and beg him to come in out of that petrifying cold, but as she had no real proof that he was out there she did nothing of the kind.
It was possible—very probable—that he was downstairs in the warmly lighted, sensuously heated salon with Lady Bembridge and Celeste ... Celeste, whom he was to marry!
It was even possible Lady Bembridge had gone to bed, and he was alone with Celeste! Celeste smelling like a Dior rose!
But she didn’t think so—perhaps because she couldn’t bear to think so!
By the time she went to bed at last she had begun to wonder about another woman who must once have figured quite prominently in Philippe de Chatignard’s life, and that was Denys Armand.
He had said that no suitable young woman of whom his family could approve had come his way. But Denys was free, and would definitely be considered suitable; and according to Hortense she and the Comte had once been very close friends indeed.
And it had been easy for Diana to guess, on the one occasion that she saw them together, that Denys was rather more than slightly interested in Philippe.
And she would make an elegant Comtesse. Why, then, hadn’t Philippe picked on her, instead of linking his whole future with someone like Celeste, who, although she could possibly make it for him, could also mar it ... badly!
The next day Denys—as if Diana’s thoughts of her the night before had given her the power to materialize unexpectedly—arrived at the chateau accompanied by Robert Sherman, the American friend of the Comte.
Apparently, as Madame Armand was a mutual friend Sherman had offered to give her a lift south as she too had been pressed by Philippe to stay at the chateau as soon as she could tear herself away from Paris and her elegant salon.
It was just before lunch that the car turned in under the archway and drew up before the windows that fronted the courtyard. Denys, looking like the very breath of Paris itself in a honey-gold suit of sheerest wool and a little honey-gold hat to match, climbed out of the rakish, sports-type car driven by the American, and fairly hurled herself upon Philippe.
‘It is so good to see you once more, cherie !’ she told him, as if it was at least a thousand years since they met. Her great dark eyes were radiant with her delight. ‘You told me I could come whenever I could manage it, and so here I am! Indebted to Mr. Sherman for a most entertaining drive!’
Mr. Sherman was one of those long-legged Americans who have literally to uncurl themselves when they emerge from a car, and he had very bright and amused blue eyes. His face was brown and relaxed, the mouth quirking up a little at the corners with humour, and although he was by no means good-looking, he was attractive. And possibly still on the right side of forty, Diana decided.
Celeste, when she emerged from the house and stood shyly behind her fiancé, took no notice of him at first; and then he turned to her deliberately and gripped her hand. He had very large hands, and hers looked very small swallowed up in one of his huge fists, that was brown like the rest of him, as if he spent a great deal of his time in the out-of-doors.
‘This is a pleasure!’ he declared, as he pumped her hand up and down and looked at her admiringly. ‘I don’t mind confessing that it was the thought that we would meet again that made me eager to accept the Comte’s invitation.’ He glanced sideways at the Comte, as if he thought it necessary to explain. ‘You can’t keep a flower like this shut away from the sun, you know, Comte! The world wants to see her ... appreciate her! And that’s what we people who produce motion pictures—or
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