certainly made up her mind about this extraordinarily pleasing marquis Sylvia brought to light most attractively the feminine helplessness that she pretended to despise. She was the lovely, porcelain-perfect, fragile, dependent woman whom almost any man—whether possessor of a Latin temperament or not— would have been anxious to serve in some way or other, in order to win one of her misty, green-eyed smiles, and hear the little coo of appreciation in her voice when she was pleased.
And when she made her appearance in the evenings wearing one of her filmy evening frocks, with her hair like a burnished cascade round her shoulders, and her jewels drawing attention to the flawlessness of her skin, it was impossible for any man not to feel a quick, upward rush of admiration. Or so Josie felt certain, having noticed the way in which even Michael glanced at her sometimes, when his attention was not being claimed by Dona Maria.
Dona Maria, like her brother, had so much natural charm, and such excellent manners, that it would have been just as impossible for a susceptible male to remain impervious to her for long. And Josie was beginning to suspect that Dr. Duveen was by nature naturally susceptible, and whatever bitter experience he might have lived through he was not the sort of man to go through the remainder of his life shunning women. It was true he had talked to her of getting thoroughly strong again and then devoting himself to his work. But as well as the work there would have to be softer influences, for he was far too personable for it to be otherwise.
He and Dona Maria seemed to have a lot in common, and Josie had the feeling that in spite of her unfortunate marriage the gravely beautiful Spanish girl had never forgotten her one encounter with young Michael Duveen. Although they had not met for ten years the very words she had used when greeting him had given her away: “ It is a long time , Senor Michael ...”
Were those words the key to the reason why the marquis seemed always to have a certain amount of reserve in his manner when addressing the good-looking young Englishman who was his guest? While surrounding that guest with every possible evidence of consideration, and a desire to make him as comfortable as possible, and to aid in his complete restoration to health, there never seemed to be any real warmth—or any desire for a closer bond between them—in the attitude of the Spaniard towards the now not much more than semi-invalid.
At times, Josie had even detected a kind of contempt in his manner—a slight curl of the lip when being drawn into a conversation with Michael—as if he accepted him as his guest because pressure had been brought to bear on him, and not because he had really wanted him as his guest.
And she recalled that he, too, had said something rather odd to her at their first meeting. Referring to his sister he had explained: “She has suffered in the past ... In future I wish her to make her own decisions, without interference from anyone, even members of her own family circle.’
Had he even then suspected that Mrs. Duveen had a plan, and that Michael might fall a willing victim to it? And because of something that had happened in the past—Maria’s and Michael’s past—was he prepared at that very early stage to do nothing but frown upon the plan?
But since their arrival at the villa Maria and Michael had seemed not to care what other people thought about their instinctive drawing to one another. They obviously found a good deal of pleasure in one another’s society, and Maria drove the doctor about in her beautiful little cream-colored coupe; when they were not driving she was walking with him in the garden, eagerly offering him her arm as a support instead of the stick he disliked. But his ankle was growing rapidly stronger, and soon he would need neither the stick nor the arm.
While they rediscovered one another, and Michael grew fit and tanned, the marquis drove his other,
And when she made her appearance in the evenings wearing one of her filmy evening frocks, with her hair like a burnished cascade round her shoulders, and her jewels drawing attention to the flawlessness of her skin, it was impossible for any man not to feel a quick, upward rush of admiration. Or so Josie felt certain, having noticed the way in which even Michael glanced at her sometimes, when his attention was not being claimed by Dona Maria.
Dona Maria, like her brother, had so much natural charm, and such excellent manners, that it would have been just as impossible for a susceptible male to remain impervious to her for long. And Josie was beginning to suspect that Dr. Duveen was by nature naturally susceptible, and whatever bitter experience he might have lived through he was not the sort of man to go through the remainder of his life shunning women. It was true he had talked to her of getting thoroughly strong again and then devoting himself to his work. But as well as the work there would have to be softer influences, for he was far too personable for it to be otherwise.
He and Dona Maria seemed to have a lot in common, and Josie had the feeling that in spite of her unfortunate marriage the gravely beautiful Spanish girl had never forgotten her one encounter with young Michael Duveen. Although they had not met for ten years the very words she had used when greeting him had given her away: “ It is a long time , Senor Michael ...”
Were those words the key to the reason why the marquis seemed always to have a certain amount of reserve in his manner when addressing the good-looking young Englishman who was his guest? While surrounding that guest with every possible evidence of consideration, and a desire to make him as comfortable as possible, and to aid in his complete restoration to health, there never seemed to be any real warmth—or any desire for a closer bond between them—in the attitude of the Spaniard towards the now not much more than semi-invalid.
At times, Josie had even detected a kind of contempt in his manner—a slight curl of the lip when being drawn into a conversation with Michael—as if he accepted him as his guest because pressure had been brought to bear on him, and not because he had really wanted him as his guest.
And she recalled that he, too, had said something rather odd to her at their first meeting. Referring to his sister he had explained: “She has suffered in the past ... In future I wish her to make her own decisions, without interference from anyone, even members of her own family circle.’
Had he even then suspected that Mrs. Duveen had a plan, and that Michael might fall a willing victim to it? And because of something that had happened in the past—Maria’s and Michael’s past—was he prepared at that very early stage to do nothing but frown upon the plan?
But since their arrival at the villa Maria and Michael had seemed not to care what other people thought about their instinctive drawing to one another. They obviously found a good deal of pleasure in one another’s society, and Maria drove the doctor about in her beautiful little cream-colored coupe; when they were not driving she was walking with him in the garden, eagerly offering him her arm as a support instead of the stick he disliked. But his ankle was growing rapidly stronger, and soon he would need neither the stick nor the arm.
While they rediscovered one another, and Michael grew fit and tanned, the marquis drove his other,
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