A CASTLE IN SPAIN

Eleanor Farnes

Plenty of English girls go to Spain for their holidays -- and many of them, like Venetia Hamilton, think nothing of going alone. But few holidays turn out as romantically as did Venetia's, when she went to stay at the family castle of Don Andres de Arevalo y Llorento.

CHAPTER I VENETIA, driving alone, headed into the Spanish hills, on a road that twisted and curved and bent back on itself, climbing continually, revealing astonishing and beautiful views. She was intent upon reaching the parador before darkness fell. Unfortunately, the car was showing a distinct aversion to all this climbing. It had been a model of good behaviour ever since she had disembarked at Bilbao weeks before, and even to-day, after she had left Rosemary at Malaga Airport, she had had no complaints on the flat coastal road. Now, however, she became increasingly alarmed at its reluctance to take the hills, even in the lowest gear. A glance at the dashboard showed her that the water was nearly boiling, and she resolved to pull off the road at the next convenient place and wait while the engine cooled down. Already the journey was taking longer than she expected because of the difficulty of the terrain, and she dreaded having trouble with the car. It would have to happen, she thought, as soon as she was alone; without Rosemary to help and support her! The road, narrow, twisting and climbing, seemed to offer no place where she could safely stop. 'But the damn thing is going to stop itself now at any moment,' thought Venetia, and finally pulled in tight to a retaining wall. She sat back in the driving seat with a sigh, more shaken than she would care to admit, and after a few moments got out of the car to revive herself with the fresh mountain air. It was then that she saw the pool of rusty brown water under her radiator, and dismay filled her. Already, twilight was falling. There had been nothing on the road for miles past; certainly no garage,

no houses, no traffic. And villages were few and very far between. If there were farmhouses, they must be concealed in the folds of the hills. She resolved to stop the next vehicle that appeared, and appeal for help. She waited a long time before a car rounded the bend fast and tore past her without seeming to see her desperate waving. The driver of the second car glared at her for stopping in a dangerous place, and drove on. She waited again for a considerable time, and now it was getting dark and she wondered if she would have to sleep in the car, not liking the thought at all, when the third car appeared. She stepped out into the road, waving both arms in some agitation; and when the car slowed, then drew in against the same wall lower down the hill and came to a complete stop, a surge of relief went through her. The driver stepped out and came up the hill towards her. Venetia advanced to meet him. She saw the typically tall, dark, welldressed type of Spaniard, and she prayed that he might be kind and helpful. As he drew closer, she saw that he had a distinctly forbidding look, and Venetia's heart failed her. Until now, she had been travelling with Rosemary. This was her first evening alone, and it gave her a feeling of insecurity.

They had been together for three weeks. Three weeks of adventure and discovery, taking the car off the beaten track, finding a Spain unfrequented by the tourist, often enchanted, sometimes a little alarmed by their own temerity. They had said goodbye that afternoon at Malaga Airport.

'It's been a stupendous trip,' Rosemary had said. 'I wish I could go on with you.' 'But duty calls,' said Venetia. 'Yes, all those unwilling heads resisting my efforts to drive French into them. It almost makes me wish that I had got the sack.' 'I didn't get the sack. I resigned.' 'In your case, my dear Venetia, a distinction without a difference. They were determined to get rid of you.' 'And now I must get rid of you. Your flight has been called.' They gathered up Rosemary's baggage and began to walk towards the departure gate. 'Well, it's been lovely, Venetia.' 'Perhaps the last timeyou'll be married by next year.' 'God willing. Enjoy yourself, and mind how you go, Venetia, and don't do anything that I wouldn't do.' 'That shouldn't limit my range,' said Venetia, smiling; and stood back as Rosemary showed her boarding card and went through the gate. Seeing Rosemary walking across the airport towards the plane, loaded down by parcels, Venetia had already felt the premonition of loneliness. It was fine to plan to drive on alone when Rosemary had gone. It was a different thing actually to start doing it. It was catastrophic that the car should have broken down on her very first evening alone.

She faced the tall, dark stranger with some apprehension. He bowed, and spoke to her in what she was sure must be faultless Spanish, but she could not understand a word of it. 'Oh,' she said in dismay. 'No comprendo. No hablo Espaaol.' 'You are English?' 'Yes.' 'And you have trouble with your car?' 'I have indeed.' She was grateful for somebody who had stopped, and who spoke English into the bargain. They were walking towards her car. 'What has happened ?' he asked her. 'I'm afraid my radiator has burst,' she said. 'The water was boiling, and the car would not take the hills; and now all the water has run out.' 'Then there is not much one can do, on the spot,' he said. She looked up at him, and discovered that he was much taller than she was. In the quickly gathering dusk, his eyes seemed almost black. 'You are alone?' he asked, and Venetia was astonished that three such brief and simple words could convey such vast disapproval. She had to admit she was alone. 'Perhaps you could tell me,' she said, 'if there is a garageor anywhere that I could get helpwithin miles of this place?'

'Not for many miles,' he said, his voice curiously detached. 'Then what would you advise me to do, senor?' she asked, and he must have heard the tinge of desperation in her voice. 'What had you thought of doing, senorita?'' 'As the other cars would not stop, I thought I would either have to sleep in the car and get help in the morning, or plod on in the hope of finding a house or village.' 'What madness,' he said. 'What a situation to put yourself into! To be at the mercy of anybody who might pass in the darkness of the night.' Venetia gathered together what dignity she could in the circumstances. 'I hope, senor, that since you were kind enough to stop, you will also be kind enough to offer me help,' she said. 'I will help you,' he said, 'but how do you know that you can trust me?' 'I don't,' she said unhappily, 'but I hope I can.' 'In fact,' he said, 'you haven't much choice, senorita.' 'No, I haven't much choice,' she said. 'Very well. I hope you see the inadvisability of setting off over the hills, alone, in an unreliable car. Even if I had a tow-rope, and I haven't, it would be difficult for you to follow me on this road now that it is dark. I will take you on to the village and arrange for

somebody to come back this evening or to-morrow morning, and tow your car in for repairs.' Thank you, senor.' Her voice was subdued. He made her feel very small, yet she was grateful. 'Is there somewhere in the village where I could stay?' There is an inn. But I would not say it is suitable for you.' 'It will have to do. I only hope they have room for me.' She was taking from her car the small suitcase in which she kept enough for the 'one-night stands'. The other things, all the odd items that one throws loose into a car, the spare shoes arid coats, the souvenirs and so on, she. transferred to the boot and locked there. Then she turned to walk with him to his car. It was now dark, and she felt a tremor of uneasiness at setting off through the darkness with a stranger. His car was in the luxury bracket. She sank into the comfortable seat with thankfulness, and he shut her in and walked round to the driving seat. The car glided on down the hill until, at last, he found a place to turn; then it swept up again with an ease which mocked her own car, parsed it standing helpless there against the wall, and glided on. 'It isn't really an unreliable car, senor,' she said. 'It has come all the way from Bilbao, taking in many journeys on the side, climbing mountains and managing very rough and stony roads, without a single mishap. Until now.' 'You did all this journeying alone?' he asked. 'No, indeed. I came with a friend. We travelled together, until this afternoon, and had a simply wonderful trip.'

'And then what happened? You quarrelled?' he asked. Suddenly she realised that he thought this friend was a man. She could have laughed aloud, but perhaps this was not the time or the situation for that, so she said quietly: 'Oh no, senor, we don't quarrel. She is a teacher and she had to get back to England for the beginning of term, so I saw her to the plane at Malaga this afternoon.' 'Ah,' he said, and made no further comment. It was a terrifying road, especially in the dark and in the way he took it. He obviously knew the road. He seemed to be a skilful driver and he had a fast car, and she could only put her trust in him; but several times she shut her eyes against what she thought was imminent catastrophe as they swept round bends that overhung sheer precipices, the headlights revealing nothing but a void of blackness. At last, winding to the top of a hill, they came to a village clinging to the hilltop; of narrow streets, of white houses closed up, but all with their many flower pots hanging on the walls, filled to overflowing with brilliant flowers, and so to a garage, revealing itself only by a couple of old cars standing outside it, and one petrol pump, its pipe nakedly emerging from the ground near the house. 'Please wait in the car,' said the man, 'and I will tell them about your car and arrange for its collection.' He knocked on the door of the small house, and after half a minute, knocked again. An impatient voice sounded from inside the house, but when the door was opened, the attitude of the garage proprietor could hardly have been more co-operative or

willing. He was all bows and smiles and understanding. 'Si, si, senor. Comprendo, senor. Mariana, si, senor.... Buenas noches, Don Andres.' While all this was going on, Venetia was able to study him in the light from the open doorway of the small house. He held himself erect, but not stiffly. On the contrary, he had an ease of carriage, an aloofness of manner and an air of confidence that reminded Venetia of all the portraits of Spanish aristocrats she had seen in the many galleries she had visited with Rosemary. The Spanish grandee, she thought, in modern dress. He came back to the car. 'He is quite good, Mateo,' he said. 'If it is possible to do the repair, he will do it.' He started the car again and Venetia supposed they would now make for the inn where she hoped to be able to spend the night. But they seemed to be a long time reaching it. In fact, it seemed to her they had left the village completely behind, and were out in open country again. 'Please, senor,' she said, 'where are we going ? Wasn't the inn in that village?' 'Yes,' he said, 'but I told you it wasn't suitable for you. I am taking you home with me.' 'No,' she said. 'No. Certainly not. Please take me back to the village; or if you won't, stop the car at once, and I'll walk back. Whatever the inn is like, it will do for one night.' 'Ah, now I have alarmed you,' he said. 'But there is no cause for alarm. How do you know that my wife won't welcome you and be happy to offer hospitality to the stranger in need of help?'

'If you have a wife,' she said, wondering how one could escape from a fast-travelling car. 'No, to be honest, I haven't a wife,' he said. 'But I have a cousin who administers my household. And she has three daughters, who are all living in my house. And there are various servants. And I assure you in all seriousness, senorita, since you are at last awake to the dangers of your situation, that no danger exists. This time, you are perfectly safe, and will be infinitely more comfortable in my house than in the inn; which while it may not be actually flearidden, is no tourist paradise.' 'I am very grateful to you, senor. And I'm afraid I interrupted the journey you were making when I stopped you.' That wasn't important. I can telephone about it. Now perhaps you will tell me your name, so that I can at least present you to my cousin Dona Eulalia de los Reyes.' 'Venetia Hamilton,' she said. 'Venetia. That is a charming name. And what does Venetia Hamilton do when she is not breaking down in foreign countries?' 'I am a teacher, like my friend. She teaches French. I teach English literature and European history.' 'Then why don't you return after the Easter holidays too?' 'A very strong difference of opinion between my headmistress and me, so that I am out of a job. But I have a new one to go to in September, which is the beginning of our school year.'

'You do not look like any schoolteacher I know,' he said. 'Allow me to present myself. Andres Rafael de Arevalo y Llorento; but it is enough to say Andres de Arevalo.' 'Tanto gusto de verle,' said Venetia. 'Oh, you have found a word of Spanish.' 'I'm ashamed I don't have more. Rosemary and I learned just enough, before we came, to help us on our way.' Venetia laughed. 'I can ask for a room with two beds, and order a limited number of meals, and agree that the weather is cold or hotbut not very much more.' The car was sweeping up a series of hairpin bends and now arrived at a very high retaining wall of stone, swept along beside it for some distance and then turned in through a high archway on to a stony drive. This continued for a short distance before becoming a smooth, made-up road. The headlights now revealed what looked very much like one of the restored castles in which Rosemary and Venetia had stayed. For they had made a point of staying at the paradores: hotels that were state-run, sometimes modern, but more often old castles, mansions, monasteries and hospices, beautifully restored; their structure often severe, their furnishings of a Spanish simplicity, having an atmosphere all their own! She saw with interest and slight misgiving that it was indeed a castle, with rough old walls and round towers; but when the car finally stopped, she saw that a stone house had been built within those rough outer walls. As soon as the car stopped, a man appeared to take it away for Don Andres; and another stood in the open doorway against the light streaming out from the hall. Senor de Arevalo spoke to them both in Spanish; and while the first man got into the car to drive it to the

garage, the second took charge of Venetia's suitcase and stood aside for them to precede him into the house. There, there was another interchange in Spanish. 'I don't know if you understood any of that, Senorita,' said the senor, 'but I have told him you will spend the night here. So you will be present at dinner, which is usually about nine o'clock, or half past. Now we will go to meet Senora de los Reyes, who will arrange to have you taken to your room.' While he had been speaking to the butler, Venetia had glanced at the hall in which they were standing. It could only be called baronial, she thought, rising to a high, pointed roof, with an intricacy of beams; the stone chimneypiece following a similar line so that it was not dwarfed. Even the furniture was not dwarfed; tall, dark Spanish cupboards and heavy refectory tables; and there were armchairs and sofas in leather that looked extremely comfortable. Tapestries hung on two walls, and crossed spears made decorations on the others. Warmth was achieved only by glowing carpets spread at intervals, cushions on the leather seating, and enormous arrangements of flowers. 'What a lovely hall,' said Venetia, as they began to traverse its length. 'Rosemary and I were quite enchanted to find so many castles in Spain, nearly always perched on hilltops. You know we have a saying in England about castles in Spainperhaps you know that.' 'It usually, I believe, means something unlikely of attainment...' 'Yes. We say: Oh, castles in Spain, meaning a pipe-dream. But they do exist in beautiful variety.' 'Tomorrow, I shall be happy, to show you this one largely ruins, I'm afraid.' They were now at the high doorway opposite the one

by which they had entered, and the tall, dark man paused with his hand on the handle and looked down at Venetia. 'We will not, I think, mention to Senora de los Reyes that I rescued you from the roadside this evening,' he said. 'There is no need to start off on the wrong foot: another of your English sayings, I believe.' Venetia felt annoyance at being expected to assume a guilt she certainly did not feel. 'Why would I start off on the wrong foot, simply because my car had an accident?' she enquired. 'Because when that accident happened, you were alone, in a strange country, in unpopulated terrain, at night, knowing little of the language. My cousin would think this not only unwise but something that would not happen to a well-brought-up Spanish girl, who would be better chaperoned.' 'If I were not in Spain,' Venetia said, 'where everybody is so courtly, so polite, I would be tempted to say: Thank God I am not a Spanish girl.' 'And if I were not speaking to a guest in my house and in my country, I would be tempted to say: See where it got you.' There was a glint in the grey-green eyes that looked up at him, and an answering glint in the almost black eyes that looked down. 'It got me into your beautiful castle,' she reminded him. 'But it might have got you into far less desirable places. You may never have heard of assault, even murder...' 'Oh, really!' Venetia exclaimed impatiently. 'Have you so low an opinion of your own countrymen?'

There are black sheep, or ignorant peasants, in every country, just as there are foolish or foolhardy girls.' Venetia's back straightened and her head went up proudly. She was now definitely annoyed. 'I wouldn't have called myself either foolish or foolhardy,' she said distantly. 'I would like to walk out of here this moment, since you think so badly of me; as it is, I have to accept your hospitality, but I will go to the inn to-morrow until my car is ready.' That would be foolish, since the inn is primitive and lacking in comforts,' he commented. 'I would rather be uncomfortable and treated with respect than be lapped in luxury and treated like a moron,' she told him. He raised his eyebrows slightly and continued to regard her with inscrutable dark eyes. 'There is another thing,' he said. 'If Mateo is left to take his time over the repairs to your car, or getting any spare parts, you could be here for a week or more. On the other hand, if I make a special point of speed, he will make it a priority over everything else.' Venetia was silent, torn between open defiance and diplomacy. She resented being thought of as flighty and foolhardy, yet she had to admit that there was interest and excitement in her present position. She doubted if she would ever see the inside of a private castle in Spain in any other way but this, and the inn, as Senor de Arevalo described it, did not sound attractive. Yet his assumption of superiority was very hard to take.

'So now I am to eat humble pie,' she said. 'And ask you, in all humility, senor, if you will use your feudal influence to induce Mateo to repair my car for me as soon as possible.' 'Another of your quaint English sayings,' he said. 'To eat humble pie. But I have an idea that humble pie would stick in your throat. Miss Hamilton.' He turned from her and opened the door. 'Don't worry,' he said. 'Mateo will see to your car with all speed. And now we go to find my cousin.' They were in a long, stone-flagged corridor, and from this a door opened into a large drawing-room most luxuriously furnished. Here, Senora de los Reyes sat in something approaching state, near a brightly burning log fire, dressed for the evening; and her three daughters sat near her, on sofa or armchairs. They were doing nothing : not reading, nor sewing, nor watching television. Venetia thought they had probably been interrupted in one of those long, gossipy conversations which Spanish women seemed to enjoy so much. They turned as one, as Senor de Arevalo ushered Venetia before him into the room, unable to conceal their surprise. Venetia was presented to the senora, and then the three girls were presented to Venetia. 'Miss Hamilton is English,' Don Andres said, 'so here is an excellent opportunity for you to practise your English, ninas.' To the senora he said: 'Miss Hamilton is spending a night or two here, while Mateo works on her car,' but offered no other explanation of her presence. He felt no need to say where he had met her, how long he had known her, or, in fact, to give any information about her whatever; and suddenly, Venetia realised how much he was master in his own house, in that, however curious they might be, they would ask no questions until they felt they might safely do so, and accept her because he had done so.

'Come to the fire, Miss Hamilton,' said the senora. 'The evenings can be cold in the hills, and you have only a summer dress.' Venetia was seated in a chair not far from the vast log fire. While they all exchanged pleasantries, Venetia took cautious stock. The senora and her three daughters, like the vast majority of Spanish women, were immaculately groomed: not a hair out of place, carefully dressed and shod, complexions tended. The casual carelessness of the English was out of place here. Venetia thought they probably disapproved of her. She did not yet realise the effect created in Spain by her corn-gold hair and green eyes and glowing English complexion. These three girls were black-haired, darkeyed, with the sallow Spanish skin. Emilia, inclined to be sulky; Joaquina and Anninha charming and friendly. Venetia discovered later that Emilia was twenty, Joaquina nearly eighteen and Anninha fourteen. 'I am called Anna really,' Anninha told her. 'But Anninha,' Senor de Arevalo added, 'is a term of affection,' and was rewarded by a brilliant smile from his young cousin. When Venetia had enjoyed a glass of pale sherry, Anninha was asked to ring for a maid to take her to her room. Senor de Arevalo rose to walk to the door with her. 'Please join us here again when you are ready,' he said. Teresa will bring you.' Thank you. Have I time to take a bath ?' 'But of course. We are in no hurry,' he assured her. People in Spain were rarely in a hurry, Venetia reflected, as she followed Teresa up the wide staircase of Spanish marble. At the top, they walked along a wide passage, turned into a narrower one, rounded two more corners and arrived at a door which looked

extremely old, decorated with iron hasps and bolts, the wood worn away into the ridges of the grain. And when this was opened, Venetia found herself in a circular room which must be in one of the round towers she had seen from the car. Teresa went away and Venetia stood still inside the door looking about her. It was not luxurious. It was severe in the old Spanish style, but was redeemed by colour. Colour in two beautiful rugs of orange, green and cinnamon that hung on the plain walls, in a similar bedspread on the dark wooden bed with primitive carving on head and foot, in the lamps that glowed softly from bedside tables, severe dressing-table and heavily carved old chest. The cinnamon carpet covered only the area round the bed: the rest of the floor was of very wide old boards polished to a rich patina by the hands of many maids over the centuries. Venetia liked the room immediately. It had atmosphere and it was essentially Spanish. She guessed that its furniture was antique and very valuable. She sighed a long sigh as she walked farther into the room in search of her suitcase. It had already been unpacked and was stowed away neatly at the bottom of the dark old cupboard that served as a wardrobe. Her simple dress, which she was afraid would be very crumpled when she came to put it on for dinner, had already been pressed and was hanging up there. She explored farther, opening the door opposite the door by which she had entered, and finding herself in a small bathroom that had nothing whatever antique about it. It was warm and carpeted, the bath already run for her, an attractive array of bath salts, bath oils, soaps and toilet waters waiting to tempt her. She yielded to temptation and poured in expensive bath oil with a lavish hand, undressed quickly and sank appreciatively into the warm water. What would Rosemary think if she could see Venetia now? Rosemary would be back in England, back in her flat, probably

beginning to tell Simon over a cosy dinner there, all about the Spanish holiday. If she thought of Venetia at all, she would imagine her in one more of those excellent paradores. By no stretch of the imagination would she see her in an old Spanish castillo, in the bosom of a wealthy Spanish family. This reminded Venetia that the wealthy Spanish family was probably growing impatient for its dinner, and she left her bath reluctantly, dressed quickly, took pains to look well-groomed, and set out for the sala, deciding that she did not need Teresa. She found her own way back to the staircase, descended it and crossed to the door of the sala. As soon as she opened it, Senor de Arevalo rose to his feet, seeming even taller than she remembered him and came to meet her. The senora and the three girls also rose to go straight in to dinner, and Venetia felt a sudden spasm of amusement to see the senor surrounded by so many women. 'We are like a flock of hens around him,' she thought. 'I wonder what he does for male company?' He sat at the head of the table, the senora at the foot. Venetia was at his right hand with Anninha next to her, and the other two girls opposite. The table was superbly laid with fine lace, elegant silver, a tumble of roses in the centre. Matias, the butler, stood at the serving table at one end of the room, lifting the lid of every dish that was brought in to inspect the contents. He also poured the wine. A younger manservant brought the dishes to the table and served them. It was a very smooth and efficient performance, Venetia thought; and indeed they might have been automata since the family completely ignored their presence. The senora said: 'Don Andres tells me, senorita, that you have driven all the way from Bilbao. That is a long journey indeed.'

'Much farther than that, senora, since we made many diversions.' 'Have you been to Madrid?' 'Not yet. I intend to drive back that way; by Jaen, Madrid, Burgosbut taking in, I hope, Toledo and Avila and Segovia.' 'And you will do all this alone?' The senora looked as if nothing would convince her that this could be so. Venetia wondered why they succeeded in making her feel so guilty about it. There was nothing to feel guilty about: there were far more intrepid explorers than herself. 'Yes, senora,' she replied blandly. The senora looked down at her plate, unable to conceal her disapproval. The three girls glanced at each other, then back at Venetia admiringly. 'If you didn't see these places on the way here,' said Don Andres, 'how did you travel ?' And Venetia began to tell them of these travels. Her friend Rosemary had wanted to go to the Ordesa National Park, having heard of the magnificent scenery, so they had gone first to the Spanish Pyrenees; then Huesca (for the cathedral) and Zaragoza, and through wild country resembling the Grand Canyon; and eventually to the sea, to Javea and down to Mojacar, the white Moorish town perched on a hill ('which I wanted to see before it was spoiled by large hotels') and right over the Sierra Nevada to Granada 'chancing on a very third-class road, all mountains, stones and dust, and not a building or a human being or a tree or even a blade of grass for mile after mile...' 'And what would you have done,' asked Don Andres, 'if your car had broken down there?'

'Perish the thought,' said Venetia quickly. 'What would we have done? I don't think we saw a single vehicle all the way to Gergal, which was like an oasis in the desert.' 'Utter recklessness,' was his comment. Venetia, in view of her recent breakdown, began to think there was something a little reckless about parts of their trip. Don Andres turned to Anninha. 'How much of the conversation have you understood?' he asked her. 'Not all of it, Don Andres,' she said, 'but quite much.' 'I hope you will not think of following the senorita's example,' he said forbiddingly. 'It is reckless and foolish in the extreme, and not the way I would like the women of my family to conduct themselves.' He spoke in Spanish, but Venetia was able to get the gist of it, as much by the intonation of his voice and his air of obvious disapproval as by the number of words she actually understood. To her dismay, she felt herself flushing and knew that they all saw her discomfiture. There was a pause which was embarrassing to all of them except, apparently, the senor. It was Anninha who tactfully put an end to it, by saying: 'I apologise, senorita, that I speak the English so bad, and have not understand all of the interesting talk.' Venetia smiled at her with quick sympathy. 'I speak Spanish much worse. Hardly at all. It is I who should apologise.' Even the senora seemed to think that Don Andres had overstepped the limits in speaking as he had and embarrassing the stranger within the gates, for she began to ask what Venetia had thought of Granada, and to say what a pity it would be to miss Sevilla or

Cordoba. But now Venetia was quiet and withdrawn. She had been vivacious, even amusing, about her and Rosemary's experiences in Spain. It was, after all, no more than one should do to contribute to the success of an occasion when one was an unexpected guest at it. But if she was seen as a bad example to the three sheltered senoritas, then the best she could do was to tell them no more about her unchaperoned journey through Spain. After dinner, coffee was brought into the drawing-room, and the senor stayed with them long enough to drink one cup of it before he excused himself and went away. It seemed to Venetia that the others took his going for granted, and she wondered if it happened every evening. He probably tired of the kind of feminine chatter he would hear from the three girls and their mother. From politeness, they tried to speak English, but it obviously became an effort after a while, and they dropped more and more into Spanish. At midnight, which they did not regard as being late, Venetia excused herself. In Spanish, she explained haltingly that she was very tired and had had a long day. At once, the three girls rose to shake hands with her as they bade her goodnight, and taking the hint, Venetia crossed to the Senora de los Reyes, gave her a little bow as she shook hands and wished her good-night. She went into the wide, stone-flagged corridor with a feeling of relief. The evening, although interesting, had been something of a strain too. She would be glad to get to bed. As she went to the foot of the stairs, another door opened and Senor de Arevalo appeared. 'Ah, you are going to bed?' he asked her. 'Si, senor. Estoy mily cansada. Buenas noches, senor.'

'I owe you an apology,' he said bluntly. 'I should not have said before others that I thought you foolish and reckless.' 'It was certainly impolite to say it in Spanish,' she said mildly, 'which you thought I wouldn't understand.' 'I did not want my young cousins to think there was anything adventurous or glamorous or romantic in doing what you and your friend had done...' 'But it was adventurous and glamorous and romantic,' exclaimed Venetia. 'I adored the trip, and wouldn't have missed it for the world.' Then you will please, if only to acknowledge my hospitality to you, senorita, not convey that impression to the girls. It is difficult enough, God knows, to keep a firm hand on them without subjecting them to free-thinking foreign influences.' Venetia looked up at him, half a dozen challenging or provoking replies trembling on the tip of her tongue; and she looked into dark, dark eyes and a sternly set face which plainly told her he was in no mood for them. She saw that he really looked upon her as a bad influence on the girls, and this surprised her. She also owed him a debt, as he had reminded her, for hospitality she could not hope to repay. 'Senor de Arevalo,' she said, 'you and your family have been very kind to me to-day. I assure you I will be discreet where the girls are concerned; and as soon as my car is repaired, I will be on my way and remove the free-thinking foreign influences from them.' 'I have no wish to drive you away,' he said formally.

'No, senor, but I still have a great deal of Spain to explore. Buenas noches, senor.' 'Do you know your way?' he asked. 'I think so.' 'I'll come with you and see that the lights are on,' he said, and they went up the wide staircase together, walked the first corridor into the narrower one, and he pressed switches as they went, to light the way ahead of them round the corners to that old, old door. 'I arranged for you to be in the oldest part of the castle,' he said. 'I thought you would find it interesting.' 'I do. I like it very much.' 'If you should need anything in the night, there is a bell in the wall beside your bed. Good-night, senorita, sleep well.' They shook hands formally. He gave her a brief bow, turned away from her and went quickly back the way they had come. Venetia opened the heavy door and went into her room. The bedspread had been removed and the bed turned down. The blanket was covered with fine lace. On the bedside table a silver tray held a tin of biscuits, a crystal bottle of fruit juice and a pitcher which proved to be full of ice cubes. Venetia promptly poured herself a glass of juice and dropped in several ice cubes. It was delicious, mixed fruit juices and not too sweet. She walked about the room, sipping her drink, studying the carving on the furniture, feeling the intensity of the silence. She looked at her reflection in the oval mirror standing on the severe dressing-table. 'If Mateo takes two or three days to repair my car,' she told herself, 'I think I shall be able to endure it.' She

finished her delicious drink. 'I might even enjoy it,' she admitted. Enjoy discovering the beauties of the ancient castle, and enjoy even more getting to know the people who lived in it.

CHAPTER II WHEN Venetia was awakened next morning by a thin but brilliant streak of light lancing between unfamiliar drawn curtains, she could not for a few moments remember where she was and all that had happened the previous evening. As soon as memory clearly returned, she slipped out of bed and crossed the room to pull the curtains back and see what daylight could offer her of the old castle. The light was too strong for her, coming from sleep and the darkened room. On distant mountains it seemed to splinter into brilliant fragments, dazzling the eyes. She lowered her eyes, and discovered to her pleasure that she was looking at a fertile and colourful garden contained between the massive outer walls of the castle and the walls of the building now lived in. The shelter these massive walls provided was all too obvious as the higher plumes of fragrant mimosa tossed in the breeze while the lower ones were still, and only the topmost blossom of the heavenly blue jacaranda trembled. Farther off, in the angle of two walls, there was a swimming pool, the water limpid, unruffled and blue under the clear morning sky. A large area of green and white paving, on which garden furniture was arranged, stretched from poolside to walls. On one wall, roses and clematis had been trained; against the other there was an elegant small building which Venetia imagined might hold changing cabins. Tubs holding shrubs, flowers or lemon trees stood at carefully selected points. As Venetia stood watching all this with admiration, a man appeared round the corner of the building, walked to the pavilion and opened it with a key. He went inside and emerged with a pile of cushions in a variety of colours: yellow, blue, green and purple,

and proceeded to arrange them on the wrought-iron chairs placed at matching tables, on the substantial wooden chaises-longues, and on the permanent garden seats. He then took a net on an extremely long handle and carefully fished for a few leaves that floated on the surface of the pool. This caused gentle ripples and a lovely pattern of light on the base of the pool. He then turned his attention to the roses on the wall, cut off all the dead flowers with longhandled shears and carried them away in a basket. Venetia also turned from this attractive scene, and from the other end of her wide curving window saw how parts of the old castle had been retained and incorporated in the newer building, which itself must now be of considerable age. She was herself in one of the old round towers, which accounted for the long walk to reach her room. Not to deface the outer aspect of the castle with a windowwhich would indeed have been to diminish the massive quality of the whole, her window had been let in to face inwards: the garden below her, the pool beyond, and a courtyard to her right partly cut off from her view by a corner of the house. She could see the high archway through which they had driven yesterday evening; and even as she opened one part of her window to lean out and see a little more of the courtyard, she heard the clip-clop of a horse's hooves, and drew back out of sight as a rider appeared. At once she recognised Senor de Arevalo and stood farther back still. He looked superb. She admitted it with the first admiring glance. He had a handsome, mettlesome horse with breeding in every fine line of it, its dark brown coat shining like silk with chestnut lights, its feet moving restlessly on the cobbles in its impatience to be off. And the rider sat with consummate ease, back as straight as a ramrod, speaking to somebody who-was out of Venetia's sight. She remembered the Spaniards' pride in their riding, the arrogance and

hauteur portrayed in every line as they sallied forth. Venetia thought there should be a statue of Don Andres and his mount, to preserve for ever the energy, strength and beauty of them. Here, indeed, was a Grandee of Spain. Yes, but grandees, she reminded herself, had ideas very foreign to her own ideas, and a way of life that she could not support for a moment. If there was one thing she had discovered during her trip with Rosemary through Spainan exploratory trip in every sense of the word since they had observed people and customs quite as keenly as architecture and the countrysideit was the attitude of men to their women. From their own observation, they had decided that Spain was a man's country. In the poorer spheres, the women worked extremely hard, adding to their family duties, back-breaking work in the fields. In the richer spheres, they were ornamental and man-pleasing: dressing for him, smiling for him, giving him every precedence. Yet all these women had a certain withdrawn quality, an impassiveness at times, which had made Venetia think that sometimes they thought their own thoughts and went their own ways. They certainly took a great deal of trouble with their appearance, especially their hair and their shoes: even the poorer working girls had shining, well-arranged hair. Ragged or urchin cuts were as rare as jeans and trousers for them. The men kept themselves to themselves. Everywhere, they talked together and did not talk to the women. They sat in cafes, heads together; in villages, they sat on hard chairs at the edge of pavements in earnest conversation. The women gossiped together and hurried away at the first signal from their men. Venetia had not mixed in circles sufficiently exalted to know how a grandee might treat his women, but she suspected that the general attitude of Spanish men might be even more emphasised in

him: that he would exact obedience, impeccable behaviour, consideration of family tradition. 'Well,' she decided, 'an emperor and slave relationship would not do for me!' The senor had finished talking to the unseen person and raised his riding crop briefly in salutation as the horse made its way through the archway and began to pick its way on the stony ground beyond. In a few moments they were out of sight. A tap on her door was followed by the entrance of a young maid bringing a breakfast tray for Venetia. 'Buenos dias, senorita.' 'Buenos dias, y muchas gracias.' 'Habla usted espanol, senorita?' Smiling at the girl, Venetia denied that she spoke Spanish. 'Solo un poco,' she said, finger and thumb an inch apart to show how very little Spanish she had. The girl smiled and departed, and Venetia was left with very good coffee, rolls freshly baked, butter and honey. She carried her tray to the window and put it on the wide ledge, from where she could see the garden while she breakfasted. She would have liked to swim in that clear and sparkling pool before breakfast, and was surprised that nobody else had done so; yet she knew that sport had no great part in the life of a Spanish girl, nor overmuch activity of any kind, unless it was strictly necessary; and since they went to bed so late, probably nobody in the castle started the day at an early hour. Except the senor, who had probably breakfasted before he made his dramatic departure on horseback.

She finished her meal, bathed, dressed, and went back along those long corridors in search of the outdoors. A woman dusting the marble stairs scurried away at her approach. The butler, crossing the vaulted hall, bowed and gave her 'Buenos dias, senorita.' Venetia, retracing her steps of yesterday, found herself outside the main door, facing the drive: on her right the courtyard she had glimpsed from her room, with a rather beautiful stone building which seemed to house stables and garages : on her left a lawn and line of shrubs which she knew must conceal the swimming pool garden. She made her way in that direction. She had brought with her her Spanish textbook and a phrase-book, but she put them down on one of the cushioned seats while she explored the pool surrounds and garden. It was a heavenly spot, sheltered, restful and fragrantso sheltered that the hibiscus blooms left lying in apparently artless arrangement, without water, on the poolside tables, did not stir. They lasted only a day, in any case, thought Venetia. They would last there until another of the servants came to sweep them away later. She left the pool garden to wander the gravel paths between the trees and shrubs of the garden proper; and then found, almost concealed by a clump of acacias, their fluffy blossom fresh and fragrant, an old and worn stairway of stone that seemed to lead to the top of one of the castle walls. She immediately made her way up, carefully because of loose stone, and found herself standing on an immensely wide wall, with the fresh breeze stirring her hair and her dress, and bringing with it a hint of the heat of the dry mountains over which it had come. There was no protective parapet, although Venetia supposed there had once been, before these walls had started to crumble. She did not go to the edge, remembering the high wall they had driven past last night, and knowing the sheer drop there would be. She looked

out over the countryside, the view from her hilltop unimpeded and expansive. The village at which they had stopped last night stood revealed in a white, climbing, Moorish aspect on the top of another hill, the houses with their thick walls and small windows huddling together. 'It looks,' thought Venetia, 'like a mountain tipped with snow: or the icing on a cake.' There was fertile land in the valleys, a greenness of trees, a greygreen of olives, a fresh green of vines: fields from which hay had already been taken, crops ripening to harvest. But this greenness extended only a short way up the slopes before it gave way to the bareness of the mountains, which stretched in a breathtaking panorama before Venetia in shades of pink and fawn and lavender, soft cinnamon and ginger-brown. She walked slowly along the top of the wall, carefully picking her way, enjoying the breeze, delighting in the prospect before her. 'Senorita!' called a man's voice, and she turned her head to look back into the garden and saw Senor de Arevalo by the poolside watching her. She waved a hand towards him. 'Buenos dias, senor,' she called out, and he came towards the bottom of the old staircase. She did not go to meet him but waited for him to come up. 'I hope you are safe up here,' he said as he joined her. 'I don't think my weight is going to make these walls crumble,' she said, smiling at him. 'After how many hundreds of years ?' 'Nearly a thousand years,' he said. 'I still hope to rebuild them one day as they must have been originally. I'm afraid it could well be what you called a "pipe-dream".'

'A castle in Spain, in actual fact. It would be colossally expensivethey are so wide and massive.' 'The castle was sacked in the everlasting battles between the Moors and the Spaniards coming from the north to drive them out. It was indeed a fortress, and standing for good reason on the top of a hill.' 'Like the village there,' she said, nodding towards it. 'It looks so attractive. I should like to see it in daylight.' 'Mateo has just driven up from there. I came to tell you that he towed in your car last night and you need a new radiator. Fortunately, he says, it is a common make of car, and if he cannot get a new radiator, he will surely find a second-hand one.' He paused, then added: 'By common, senorita, you understand that I mean there are many cars of this kind.' 'I know,' she said. 'Common but reliableuntil now.' 'Even now,' he said. 'It was not the fault of the car at all, and I regret that I accused you of venturing in an unreliable car. It was quite extraordinary. You had, apparently, driven through a plague of flies. There were thousands of them completely gumming up your radiator, so that it was not possible to cool anything. They were all over the front of your car, and the headlamps as you might have discovered if you had gone on to drive through the darkness.' 'I've never heard of such a thing,' said Venetia. 'Nor I. But you have been fortunate in coming into the hands of Mateo, who will put all right as soon as possible.' 'How soon, senor, do you think as soon as possible will be?'

He looked down at her with a slight smile on his dark face. Venetia thought the smile did not reach the darker eyes: there was a brooding look about them. She had several times suspected that there was a melancholy about the Spanish aristocrat that ran deeply through his character. 'I'm afraid you are doomed to spend to-night under my roof,' he told her ,'and almost certainly to-morrow night as well; but be assured that Mateo will waste no time.' 'Doomed is hardly the right word, senor. Perhaps blessed would be a better one, since this is such a beautiful place. But I am sorry that you have to endure an uninvited guest.' 'I shall try to bear it with fortitude,' he told her, and she looked for the reappearance of the smile, but it was not there, and his tone was dry. 'And I wish you a pleasant stay with us.' They began to walk back to the old stairway. He went before her, looking back to offer her his hand. These steps are dangerous, I know,' he said. 'They should have a handrail, and the loose stones should be cemented; but nobody comes up here. Please take care.' She put her hand into his, and he held it firmly, shielding her from accident. It was a strong, capable hand, Venetia thought, not knowing that hers within it felt fragile as a bird's wing, as easily crushed. Thank you,' she said when they reached the bottom. 'Senor, would you allow me to swim in your beautiful pool?' 'Of course. Please feel free to go where you will, and do what you will. In fact, I believe there is a swimming party this afternoon, at

which Dona Eulalia and my young cousins will be delighted to welcome you.' They were walking towards the pool now, and Venetia felt a stab of disappointment that she was expected to wait for the girls and go swimming with them. She would have liked to plunge alone into that clear water right now. Suddenly, from the direction of the lawn and sheltering line of trees and shrubs, the three sisters appeared. They were in riding clothes, having just returned from a ride. 'Buenos dias, Senorita Venetia,' they called. 'Are you going to join us for coffee? It is coming at once.' 'You know already, senorita, that we lunch later than you do in England,' Senor de Arevalo said to her. 'Let me advise you to eat something now, or you will be hungry. Luncheon will be at about three o'clock.' Venetia knew that the operative word in the last sentence was 'about'. About three o'clock might well mean nearer to four. People said they would arrive at ten, and then came at eleven or twelve or not at all. As the Spanish breakfast was usually a small one, it was not surprising that snacks of all kinds appeared at all times of the day; and now, as soon as the girls had chosen a table in the shade, two of the maids arrived, one carrying a tray with coffee and chocolate and cream and cups, the other with both sweet and savoury tit-bits to stay their appetites. The senor did not stay with them. He bowed and begged to be excused, and suggested that at some time during the day one or more of the girls might show Miss Hamilton more of the castle. Emilia had lost some of her sulkiness this morning. The other two were as charming and friendly as before. They had been forbidden to disturb her, they said, since la madre thought she would be tired

after her journeying, but if she cared to ride to-morrow, there would be a mount for her. Was she not terribly brave to bring a car all the way to Spain and drive it through mountain country and some of the most desolate regions ? Was it a usual thing for girls in England to do? Was the friend who returned to England her duenna ? Venetia laughed and said: 'We were each other's duenna.' 'But now she has gone, perhaps it is not comme il faut to drive on alone?' said the gentle Joaquina. 'Oh, I would love to do it,' said Anninha, sparkling. 'Senor de Arevalo would not like that,' Venetia said. 'No, of course I would not really do it,' said Anninha seriously. And Venetia saw that none of them would. Not one of them would knowingly do anything that would seriously displease Don Andres. They might seem to rebel momentarily, might sulk for a day or two, but they knew their place in life perfectly well. Perhaps these three sisters were under more of an obligation to please him, since he had offered a home to the widow of his cousin and her three daughters: this was a customary happening in Spain where families clung together and provided for the less fortunate members. But Venetia knew that, even without this extra kindness on Don Andres' part, he would, as the male head of the family, be given obedience and be allowed to know what was good for them. Joaquina had picked up the books left on a chair by Venetia, and exclaimed: 'Oh, you learn Spanish, senorita.' 'I am trying,' Venetia admitted.

'Shall we give you a lesson?' asked Anninha, all smiles. 'I wish you would. If you speak in Spanish, I'll try to understand.' 'We will ask you questions in English, and you must reply in Spanish,' said Emilia; and a considerable part of the early afternoon passed, with a great deal of chatter and laughter at the mistakes, as the combined English-Spanish lesson took place. The sisters then decided there was time before almuerzo to show Venetia the castillo; and they whisked her round much too fast for her to appreciate its many beauties and interests, because they were so intimate with the wonderful building that the tour bored them. The old walls were of such a width and strength that not even sacking by the Moors had been able to demolish them, and Venetia loved the rooms hidden away, like her own, in the round towers. As they finished the rapid conducted trip and she thanked the girls, she thought that, wherever the women held sway, the rooms were luxurious: the main sala, the second smaller sala, their bedrooms, and the boudoir of Senora de los Reyes, which was a nest of scented luxury. The rest, that noble vaulted hall, the dining-room with its long table and high-backed chairs, the library only relieved by glowing carpets from the East: all this was austere, even severe, in the old Spanish style. When she went down to lunch at three o'clock, she found that there were visitors. She was introduced to Senor Vicente de Quevedo, who was the Don's estate manager; a man of about forty, short, thick-set and friendly, with a merry twinkle in his eye. The other man was Father Ignatio, tall, dark, gaunt, severe in his habit, his face set in such stern lines that Venetia thought he was like a figure from the old Spanish Inquisition. But he was in fact a gentle man, erudite; ascetic but with a smile of great sweetness.

No longer was Don Andres surrounded cluckingly by womenfolk, thought Venetia. Most of the conversation took place between the three men, although occasionally, courteously, one or other of them referred to the Senora. The girls remained silent and Venetia was strongly reminded of the old English exhortation that children should be seen and not heard. Silent herself, she listened to the conversation, trying to understand the rapid flow of soft, sibilant Spanish. After the meal, Don Andres excused himself and his guests and carried them off for coffee in the library, while Venetia sat with Dona Eulalia and her daughters. And that, thought Venetia, was exactly what she did not likethis splitting up of the sexes. She was confirmed in her dislike in the later afternoon, when, after a shorter than usual siesta, visitors arrived for the swimming party and she discovered that, without exception, they were women or girls. Venetia was already down at the poolside when Dona Eulalia came along the pathway through the belt of trees and shrubs, accompanied by three women of about her own age, and followed by a bevy of chattering, fluttering girls. They had arrived in sleek, luxurious cars. They were dressed in formal but light silk dresses and wore high-heeled shoes. Their hair was, as usual, beautifully dressed, and they rattled and chimed with their quantity of gold bracelets and gold charms. Mistake number one, thought Venetia, for she was wearing a blueand-white-striped towelling coat over her bikini. She might have known that a swimming party in an old castillo of Spain, for the elite of the neighbourhood, would be different from a swimming party in England. Did they intend to swim at all ? she wondered.

They disposed themselves on the elegant garden furniture, two of the little maids running about to place various kinds of chairs in specified places, first for the senoras and then for the senoritas. The guests chattered incessantly in high-pitched voices, much too quickly for Venetia to understand them, although nearly all of them found a few words of English to greet her when she was introduced to them. Anninha came to sit next to Venetia. 'Is anybody going to swim?' Venetia asked her. 'Some of them might, later. I think I shall. And you?' 'I'm simply dying to get into that marvellous pool.' 'Please, then do, senorita. And I will change my clothes and swim with you.' They rose together and Anninha, passing her mother, said that Senorita Venetia wished ' to swim. The senora nodded graciously and Venetia left the group with relief to walk to the deep end to plunge in. Anninha had gone into the pavilion, presumably to change; but Venetia would wait no longer. She took off the blue ribbon that was tying back her hair and put it in her pocket. Then she took off the towelling coat and dropped it on to a wrought-iron chair. Then, with one hand lightly resting on the diving stage, she reached one pointed foot down into the water to feel the temperature. She did not know what it was that diverted her attention. Perhaps it was the sudden cessation of the high-pitched chattering. Silence had fallen on the group. Venetia glanced towards it, and saw that every single head was turned in her direction, many pairs of dark eyes stared at her, as if arrested in mid-movement. Oh God,

thought Venetia, is this mistake number two? Should I not have worn a bikini ? It was a very brief bikini, true, in blue and white stripes. It would not have raised an eyebrow in France, and only the oldest eyebrows in England. But Spain was Spain! She decided the best thing was to get into the water. She went in in a shallow dive and did an overarm stroke the length of the pool. Her long, corn-gold hair spread out on the water, and when she turned at the end to swim back, it followed her movement in a slow, fanning arc, like river-weed, or like a mermaid's hair. The water was beautifully warm. Oh, gorgeous, thought Venetia, and tried to forget the disapproving stares of the matriarchs; and pulled herself up the steps and stood on the diving board, arms extended before her, refusing to be ashamed of herself for appearing so briefly clad. She dived in again. All the same, she was relieved when Anninha, in a one-piece orange swimsuit and a swimming cap, came to join her, followed by another senorita. Some time later, Senora de los Reyes called to them. 'Come, come,' she said. 'Enough. Coffee is here.' The two Spanish girls immediately swam to the side to clamber out, and Venetia supposed she must do the same. The equivalent to afternoon tea had arrived: coffee, much more prevalent than chocolate in southern Spain, and rich pastries. Venetia went straight to the shower tap, turned it on, and gasped asat firstit came through icy cold. A shock after the warm water of the pool. She let it run through her hair, over her face and body, and then stepped aside, turned off the tap and began to wring the water out of her hair. It was at this moment that she heard Anninha's young

voice calling: 'Don Andres, come and swim!' Venetia looked round, startled, but there was no sign of him. Then she saw that Anninha was looking up and waving towards a balcony, and looking up herself, she saw the senor standing on a recessed balcony, his hand on the heavy wooden railing, looking down at the party by the pool. He waved his hand at Anninha, and shook his head in answer to her invitation, then turned to go back into the room behind him and in doing so met the eyes of Venetia, which were startled to find him there. At once she averted her glance. She was embarrassed. And that, she decided, was because the overt disapproval of the women had caused her to think there was something to be embarrassed about. 'Oh, this is no place for me,' she thought. She liked freedom and openness, and she would dry up under this continual pressure of disapproval. She walked without hurry to where she had left her towelling coat and put it on. She stood there, away from the group, drying her hair, refusing to glance up at that balcony again, having no idea if he was still there or had gone away; no idea, either, how long he had been watching the people below. At last, having combed her hair and leaving it spread out over her shoulders for the sun to dry it, she went to join the swimming partya misnomer indeed. The women had apparently decided to forgive her, as being but an ignorant foreigner, and she was given coffee and offered rich cakes. By twos and threes they went away, and Venetia walked among the mimosas; hibiscus and jacarandas of the garden, until the pool garden was empty. She was resolved to swim again when everybody had gone; but then maids appeared to clear the tables, to rearrange the chairs and sweep the paving. At last, however, all was peace and she flung off her coat once more and slipped into the warm water, with the whole place to herself, swimming quietly up and down, up and down.

Only when a long shadow fell across the water did she even think about her surroundings, and then she glanced up to find Senor de Arevalo standing on the coping, wearing swimming trunks. 'I hope I do not intrude on your peaceful swim,' he said, and dived into the pool. His powerful strokes took him quickly to the end, then back; there and back again, and then he surfaced in the deep end, holding the side with one hand and watched her as she came towards him. This is utter bliss,' said Venetia, at her most natural, smiling at him. 'Such warm water! Do you heat it?' He explained that it was heated to a certain temperature, but very often the sun's heat did it without help. 'Las ninas will not swim at all unless the water is quite warm,' he said. They went on swimming idly, but the moment Venetia decided to get out, Don Andres got out with her, and they walked together to where her coat was warming on a chair in the sun. He picked it up and held it for her while she slipped her arms into it, and he took the long fair hair in both hands and pulled it from inside the coat to lie on the outside. 'Have you been inside the pavilion?' he asked her. Venetia said she had not. They walked towards it and into its welldesigned interior. 'I want to show you, senorita, that there are new swim-suits here of all sizes for people who do not come prepared to swim. Perhaps you would like to choose one for your own use, for as long as you stay in the castillo.' Venetia was silent. Markedly silent, fighting down the rebellious things she wanted to say to him. He waited, saying nothing more,

and the silence lengthened. She turned and stared out over the sunlit pool, and at last regained control of herself. 'Very tactful,' she said drily. 'But a rebuke, nevertheless. I am evidently a very sharp thorn in your , side, senor.' 'There is a saying that when in Rome, one should do as the Romans do.' 'Were you really so shocked at seeing a woman in a bikini?' 'The point is that the ladies were shocked. Even, I think, the young ladies. Your bikini is hardly a costume of any kind, and the senoras, at least, would find it very difficult not to be extremely embarrassed. I think an apology to Senora de los Reyes would be fitting.' 'She shall have her apology;' said Venetia. 'Perhaps I should also apologise to you for causing you unnecessary embarrassment.' Her words were quietly spoken, but the taunt was there, and the fact that he recognised it was evident in the grim set of his lips. 'I admit to you quite freely, Miss Hamilton, that I, like most Spaniards, do not care for our women to expose their bodies to the gaze of all men; nor would I care to have the three senoritas exposed in that way to the gaze of the servants. And I think you would find that the women themselves would support our point of view.' He had wrapped himself round in a thick robe of navy blue towelling. 'What you do in your own emancipated country is naturally your own affair.' Now the taunt was in his words. 'I think it would be good manners if, while you are here, you would observe our customs.' 'It shall be done,' said Venetia drily. 'But I very much hope I will not need to intrude on this sheltered world much longer. I am sorry

to have upset anybody. As soon as the car is ready, I will relieve you of the thorn in your side, senor. Would it be possible for me to go into the village to-morrow morning and see Mateo?' 'I have telephoned him. He has the work in hand.' 'But I would like to see the village, and I have to pay him for the work.' 'Very well, there will be transport for you to-morrow morning.' 'Thank you, senor.' They began to walk away from the swimming pool towards the house. He was looking so forbidding and seemed so tense and grim that suddenly Venetia smiled at him. 'Cheer up,' she said consolingly. 'I will try not to commit any further faux pas before I leave and take with me my free-thinking foreign influences -I am not really so bad, you know.' He turned and looked down at her and his so-dark eyes were quite inscrutable. She had pulled the collar of the towelling coat up round her neck, and drops of moisture from her wet hair were running down her face, her eyelashes were still spiked together with the wet. He said: 'I think you are quite bad. What I fear is that you may leave some of these free-thinking ideas behind you. Excuse me.' He gave her a slight bow and left her, leaving her to go on into the castle alone. Was he being serious, she wondered, or had there been a hint of humour lurking behind what he had said? Heigh-ho, she sighed. It was very difficult being a guest in another era. Delightful as this place was, she thought its atmosphere would stifle her. It might even be a relief to drive off in her own car again, with obligations to no one. She would be glad to see in the morning, in the village, how far Mateo had progressed with the repair to her car.

In the morning, there was a note on her breakfast tray from the senor. 'Anninha tells me that you ride, and it might be more interesting for you to visit the village in this way. She will be happy to accompany you when you are ready.' Venetia replied: 'Thank you, it is a lovely idea. I haven't riding clothes with me, but if I am allowed to wear informal gear, I would be happy to accept the invitation.' The maid, Pascuala, coming to fetch the tray, had only a verbal message. The senor was sure that whatever the senorita chose to wear would be charming. Venetia laughed aloud, thinking of the bikini yesterday, thinking of the jeans she had with her; and Pascuala laughed in sympathy, not knowing what she was laughing at. So that when Venetia appeared in the courtyard some time later, she was wearing her jeans, which had faded in the sun of Spain, and a thin rolled-collar jersey. The senor and Anninha were waiting for her. Both were in immaculate riding clothes, Anninha sitting her horse very well but Don Andres, as before, a marvel of grace and correctness. A groom was holding the third mount, and he looked mystified and then horrified at Venetia's appearance. 'Buenos dias, Anninha, senor,' Venetia called. 'You see that I am not very formal. I'm sorry.' Anninha looked towards Don Andres for guidance. He bowed, assured Venetia it was of no importance, and watched her as she swung into the saddle. 'You will find she is quiet and goodtempered,' he said, and Venetia gave him a brilliant smile. Riding was one thing she did extremely well, and this morning she was on her mettle indeed. They set off through the high archway and on to the stony road.

'I have business in the village this morning, so I will escort you, and Anninha will go with you while you explore and while I work. Is that agreeable to you, senorita?' 'Muy agradable, senor, gracias.' They did not keep to the road. Knowing the countryside so well, they knew where they could cut across scrub or take a needlestrewn pathway through woods. As, at last, they rode up the hill towards the village and its small square, Don Andres said: 'You ride very well, senorita. I think you have been well taught.' 'Yes. This is something my brother and I have done since we were small children. I love riding.' 'But you cannot have much opportunity, teaching in London.' 'My parents have a house in the country and I often go home at weekends.' 'I should love to go to England, and to see London,' said Anninha. 'We would be very happy to have you stay with us, if ever you come,' said Venetia. 'I think it rather unlikely that Anna will go to England,' the senor said, and the fact that he called her Anna was enough to show the girl that he disapproved of the idea, and she said no more. When they had been to the garage (the car would be ready late in the day, Mateo said), the senor left them and Venetia and Anninha began to walk through the village.

It was very Moorish in character, gleaming white, a village clustered on and clinging to the hilltop. As almost everywhere in Spain, destruction and construction were going on at a great rate. The old was coming downit had been built, it seemed, of some rock and much mudand the new was going up; but even the new houses were going up in the same higgledy-piggledy fashion, turning at all angles, leaving oddly shaped spaces that suddenly revealed a wonderful view. Rubble and dust were everywhere, and new cottages of a spanking white. Narrow streets and winding ways and tiny houses: little old women in black, incredibly bent: plenty of men, also in black, sitting about: but young men working on the building and singing their Moorish-sounding plaints. Mules with panniers stood in patches of shade, and boys rode mules down the steep streets, sometimes at a reckless speed, calling: 'Hoy; hoy' at the corners. Everywhere brilliant flowers, spilling from balconies or patios, or simply hanging on those white walls in their pots. A noble church in one of the few flat places, with a small square before it boasting four jacaranda trees, now in bloom, their green fronds and misty blue a relief after all the dazzling white. They drank coffee on the patio of the inn that had been considered so unsuitable for Venetia. Apart from snatches of singing that seemed to come from a different direction each time, and an occasional scolding voice from inside the inn, there was a deep silence, almost a hush, over the village. 'Wonderful,' said Venetia. 'A lovely, charming place. And I am quite astonished to hear so much singing in Spain. Everybody sings. The chambermaids in the hotels, the men building, the women in their houses.' 'Why does it astonish you?' asked Anninha.

'I suppose one doesn't think of Spain as being a happy country,' said Venetia. Anninha looked at her in complete bewilderment and surprise. 'But why not? Of course, Espana is a happy country. Everybody here is happy.' 'Wella slight exaggeration, perhaps?' said Venetia, and they both laughed and the unfortunate moment was forgotten. When the senor appeared, the girls went to get their horses which had been tethered to a tree in the shade. The senor watched them as he waited: Anninha immaculate, her dark hair neat under the hard Spanish riding hat; the English girl in her faded jeans and sweater, the corn-gold hair uncovered, which was not wise in the Spanish sun. 'I think you should have a hat,' he said. 'We are riding back in the heat of the day.' 'Where can I get one, please?' she asked, and it appeared that there was a little shop where cheap straw hats could be bought. Anninha went with her. 'This is nice,' she said, indicating a neatly bound, small-brimmed one. 'No, I like this,' said Venetia, and chose one with a large floppy brim and a red ribbon round it. 'It's more suitable for my outfit, isn't it?' she asked, laughing. They went back to where the senor waited, but Anninha was still doubtful. 'I think you look like a hippy,' she said. 'God forbid,' said Venetia, and suddenly wondered if this was how the senor would see her. To her annoyance, she felt a little anxious as they rejoined him, but he made no comment and showed nothing in his serious expression. They rode back, cantering or galloping where they could, to feel a little wind in their faces, and arrived at the castillo with little time to change before lunch.

After the meal, the usual hush settled over the whole establishment. Venetia read in her room for an hour, and then went down to the pool garden. It was not in her nature, even in the heat of southern Spain, to be lazy for long. She went into the pavilion and found a new emerald green one-piece swimsuit which she put on in one of the changing cubicles. It was close and confining after the freedom of her bikini. She swam, then sunbathed on the paving, moved sensibly into the shade after a while, then swam again. If her car was actually ready this evening (but one must allow for the usual delays in Spain), she would leave to-morrow morning. She would not intrude on the hospitality of the castillo longer than was necessary, so she must make the most of this wonderful pool and beautiful garden to-day.

CHAPTER III THAT evening, Senor de Arevalo did not appear at dinner. He was dining with friends, and Venetia found that dining with the senora and her three daughters was a dull affair, since all the girls were repressed by their mother, and their idle gossip was tedious in the extreme. She was now beginning to assess the personalities of the three sisters. She was so accustomed to dealing with girls from the ages of eleven to seventeen that she had considerable experience and perspicacity. She thought Emilia rather stupid. She was sulky too. She had good looks of a rather heavy kind, and no doubt was waiting for the husband who would eventually be found for her. She seemed to resent the presence of Venetia, and Venetia wondered if the reason was that she had her sights raised to Senor de Arevalo. Surely that was raising them too high! Joaquina, the second daughter, was entirely different. She was quiet and reserved, with a charming smile and, Venetia suspected, great sweetness of character. Slimmer and lighter than Emilia, she moved with a natural grace and beauty. Venetia hoped such sweetness would not find itself confined to a convent, but that, if a husband was found for her, he would be the right one. The right one would adore her; the wrong one would find her a mat beneath his feet. Anninha was still young: at nearly fifteen as much of a tomboy as she could be, with her stern mother and her prescribed circumstances. Anninha was the naughty one: the one, Venetia was repeatedly told, who got into scrapes. She was continually being reminded of her naughtiness, constantly being warned.

Venetia reminded herself that after to-night she might never see any of them again. Mateo had delivered her car, assuring her that it would carry her safely through Spain. Anninha translated for him. He had fitted a second-hand radiator 'as good as new' and she would have no more trouble, unless she found another plague of flies! The senor had settled the bill. Venetia was grateful for this, for the repair was expensive and would make considerable inroads on her remaining travellers' cheques. She was determined to repay the senor later. So, then. She would start in the morning, and excused herself at midnight to go to bed. 'May I say goodbye to you now, senora, as I shall leave fairly early in the morning?' They said formal goodbyes with mutual good wishes but with little feeling on either side. Then Venetia said goodbye to the sisters. 'But I,' declared Anninha, 'will be up to see you go.' 'And the senor?' asked Venetia. 'Will you please thank him for me and say goodbye for me?' 'Don Andres will certainly be up when you go,' said the senora. 'You will be able to thank him yourself.' So Venetia went to bed, and was up early, packing her case, and ate her last breakfast in that tower room, looked her last on the calm, still pool and the garden, gave a slow farewell glance to the room she had liked so much, and went out to her car. Anninha, true to her word, was there, and the cook had provided a hamper of good things for the senorita to take with her. But there was no sign of Don Andres.

'Oh,' said Anninha, 'Don Andres was called away earlier. An urgent message came for him.' 'When will he be back?' Venetia asked, unexpectedly disappointed. "We don't know. Shall I find out?' 'No, Anninha, it doesn't matter. But if he isn't here, I must write a letter of thanks.' She did this and Anninha promised to deliver it. There was then nothing to detain Venetia. The senor's chauffeur stood by, to see if there was anything he could do, and it was these two people only who saw her leave, Anninha waving her hand until the car was out of sight. It was a most disappointing anticlimax. But why should it be? Venetia asked herself. They had taken her in on sufferance, and it was very kind of them to do so, while her car was being repaired. Now it was repaired, and she was on her way. She had been an unimportant incident in their lives, and now the incident was closed. No doubt they would soon forget her. But she knew she would not very soon forget them. It had been an unexpected gift of an intimate look at one kind of Spanish life. It was very hot in the car. Venetia was glad that she had not a long run before her to-day. In view of the hamper provided by the cook, she would lunch by the wayside and probably reach the parador in early afternoon. She lunched early, since she had also breakfasted early, in a patch of shade provided by a rare clump of wayside trees. Delicious food was packed into that hamper, and there was a thermos flask keeping coffee hot, another keeping fruit juice cold. Under the trees, there was just enough breeze to refresh her.

She saw the figure approaching along the road while it was still small, revealing no identifying features. As it trudged nearer, she saw that it was a man, and felt sorry for him, walking in this heat. As he came nearer still, she decided he was not a Spaniard. A hiker? So far from anywhere? He came up, smiling at her, fair-haired under the straw hat, tanned brown, a young man of perhaps twenty-six or twenty-eight who could be English, Norwegian or German. He said: 'If that is your car, I hope you're English.' 'Yes. You, too?' 'Me too. My, it's hot to-day, isn't it ? You wouldn't possibly have a cooling drink about you anywhere?' 'I have,' she said. 'Have you walked far?' 'No. To tell the truth, only about half an hour. I hitched a ride. But half an hour in this heat brings on a thirst.' She poured a cup of cold fruit juice into a beaker. 'Ah, fit for the gods,' he said, returning the beaker empty. He must quite plainly see the good things in the hamper, but he said nothing about them. He commented on the wonderful view she had chosen to watch while she ate, and he asked her how she was liking Spain. It was Venetia who asked him if he had lunched, and assured him he would be welcome to share what she had. He settled down near her. This is awfully kind of you,' he said. 'And a wonderful bit of luck for me.'

'Where are you making for?' she asked. It transpired that he was headed for the same parador as herself. She did not immediately tell him so. She wanted to assure herself that he was a decent person before offering him a lift; but as they introduced themselves and ate lunch together, and talked of England and what they did there, and of Spain and found that they liked the same things about Spain, she decided that it would be churlish not to offer him a lift. 'I particularly want to get there this afternoon,' he said, 'because there's a town near by having its feast-day, and you never know what will happen on a feast-day.' 'Well, I'll take you,' she suddenly offered. 'I'm making for the parador myself.' He was delighted. He helped her pack up and stow the hamper and the camp chairs in the car, and he sat beside her as they drove through the burning countryside. The parador, when they arrived there, had rooms for them and the usual coolness and peace. Before they parted to go to their rooms, Venetia said: 'Where is this fiesta town ? Do you think there will be something interesting to watch?' 'I can't promise, but I should imagine so. Why, would you like to go?' 'I was wondering.' 'I could escort you,' he offered at once. 'I could drive you,' she reciprocated.

'A deal,' he exclaimed. 'When would you like to go?' 'I have no idea.' 'Say we go along about six? That will give you time for a rest and a cup of something...' Venetia agreed. She left David Buckford and went along to her cool, quiet, darkly furnished Spanish room. He had lessened the anticlimax of her departure from the castle and provided interest for at least another day. Venetia wondered if Don Andres had returned for lunch and received her letter. She would have preferred to thank him in person, but she had no doubt that he would be glad to see the back of herand of those foreign, freethinking influences. Such as driving unchaperoned round the countryside, and wearing bikinis so brief as to shock her hostesses, and appearing for riding wearing jeans and jerseys in a society that preferred to be immaculate. She was probably considered a dreadful person and unsuitable company for the senoritas. After a bath and a rest, Venetia rang for coffee and easeimadas to be brought to her room, then dressed in a cool white dress and comfortable white sandals and went to meet David Buckford at six o'clock. They found, slightly to their disappointment, that the town enjoying its fiesta was a poor one with little to recommend it architecturally; its cobbled streets incredibly narrow, its open spaces hot and dusty and with the usual amount of rubble. But all the open spaces to-day were filled with the apparatus of the fair. Dodgems blared forth particularly raucous music in one, and a carousel for the smallest children was wedged in near the dodgems. Stalls were placed wherever there was room for them, and it seemed to Venetia that most of them were run by gypsies.

The wares were of the cheapest, trashiest kind, from plastic buckets and domestic items to cheap toys and incredibly tawdry jewellery. There were rosaries by the thousand. The young gypsy women had tiny, sickly-looking spotty babies, and some of them were sitting on doorsteps publicly feeding them. There were more stalls of sweetmeats than any other kind: sticky, rich squares of sweetmeats which were sold one by one. Flies were everywhere, on the children (many of the tiny ones wore a little shirt and nothing else), and on the sweetmeats. As soon as Venetia and David Buckford appeared, the children swarmed round them begging for pesetas. David said: 'Don't give them anything, you'll have no peace.' But Venetia used up all her spare pesetas so that the tiniest children could ride on the carousel or buy a sticky sweet. Fairy lights were hung across some of the narrow streets and as the evening darkened, these were lit and seemed to be the signal for crowds of people to issue from their houses into the streets. There were small five-year-old girls dressed as adults with long, full, many-tiered skirts of scarlet, polka-dotted white, with shawls, high heels, combs in the hair which was dressed high on their heads. These were very proud of themselves and much admired. The crowds increased moment by moment, swelled by the numbers coming out of the church where Mass had been said; and immediately in front of the church was a vast and glittering tombola stand whose music could surely not have been playing while Mass was in progress! As they mixed with the Spanish crowd, a new sound of music was heard, from a band approaching at full speed. A crowd was keeping pace with it. 'Where are they going?' asked Venetia. 'Let's go with them and see.'

'Hold my hand, then. I might lose you in the crush.' It certainly was a crush, in such a narrow street turning into another as narrow, and the crowd increasing all the time. Venetia almost had to run to keep up. The children were running. They emerged into a shabby, small square, and stopped at, of all places, a cinema. 'Oh,' said Venetia, disappointed, 'I don't want to go to a cinema. Especially on such a hot night.' The crowd was milling round the box office trying to get tickets. No orderly queues here! Just a fight to get to the small window first. 'I'll see what's going on,' said David, releasing her hand. 'Don't get lost.' He vanished and for a long time she did not see him again. The fight for tickets went on. Watching the crowd was almost sufficient entertainment, Venetia decided, standing aside. Then David appeared, waving two tickets. They didn't cost the earth,' he said, 'so if you don't want to go, it doesn't matter. I don't know what it is, only that it's not a film.' 'Well, let's go in. We can always come out again if we don't like it.' He had tickets for the balcony, which proved to be, when they had climbed the stone steps, just one row of seats along the sides and back of the cinema. Venetia and David were at one side about halfway along, completely surrounded by Spaniards. There was not one word of any language but Spanish to be heard; nor, as far as they could judge, one person who was not a Spaniard. Tourists might flock to Sevilla for the feast day, or to other beautiful towns, but they certainly did not come here.

There was the inevitable wait, while the high-pitched chatter swelled to new heights and the children dashed up and down the aisle, even the five-year-old senoritas in their finery. Then the lights lowered, and six young dancers came on to the small stage and gave what was undoubtedly the finest exhibition of flamenco dancing Venetia had ever seen. Her eyes were diverted from the stage by a movement below her, and she looked down to see what appeared to be a flight of huge butterflies hovering over the audience below. It was a moment or two before she realised that it was the fans of dozens of women fluttering in a graceful motion; and it seemed as if, every moment or so, a butterfly took off and landed somewhere else, as one woman here closed her fan and another there opened hers. Venetia counted fifty before she gave up and returned her attention to the stage; but she was continually distracted by this lovely slow movement going on. A fan was no ornament here but an article of extreme practicality, and Venetia wished she had one, for it was very hot in the place. They had more dancing after an interval, and singing to a guitar in which every specially high note, sliding all over the scale in the customary Spanish lament, was individually applauded; but at last they emerged once more into the crowded streets where people were trying to promenade under the fairy lights. 'That was marvellous,' declared Venetia, who had enjoyed the whole venture enormously. David had hold of her hand again, to guide her through the crowd. The sound of their English tongues riveted attention to them. 'What would you like to do now?' asked David. 'Oh, I've had enough. What about you?'

'So have I. Shall we get out of here?' They went along narrow side streets, leaving the noise and bustle behind, to where they had parked the car. And here everything was quiet and peaceful, and people who had no love of fairs were sitting outside their doors on kitchen chairs, taking advantage of the cool night air. Although it was now no longer necessary, David had his hand through Venetia's arm, and they were walking closer together than she considered necessary; but they were now near the car and it did not seem worth withdrawing herself. They separated at the car and Venetia unlocked it. 'I thought we might have had something to eat here,' said David, 'but there wasn't anywhere suitable.' 'No, indeed, and altogether too many flies for my liking.' They got into the car and wound down the windows. 'In any case,' added Venetia, 'there is still the hamper, and the food ought to be eaten while it's still good and fresh.' 'Wonderful,' said David. 'We'll have a picnic.' They drove to the edge of the town, stopped again on a grass verge, and by the light of the last street lamp, they ate their picnic in the car. 'I loved that,' said Venetia, referring not to the meal but to the feast-day. 'It was really Spanish.' So was the castillo really Spanish, she thought, but how different! What would Senor Andres Rafael de Arevalo y Llorento think if he had seen her in the milling crowd waiting for tickets to that cheap-looking cinema? Or running along the street hand in hand with David Buckford, keeping up with the band as it strode along? But it

would be many a day before she would forget that extraordinary dancing, or the flight of butterflies hovering over the audience. 'It was wonderful of you to drive me here,' David said. 'I shouldn't have known about it if you hadn't told me.' Once again, they packed up the hamper, and Venetia drove back to the parador. They drove in to the quiet entrance and she parked her car at the end of the line of cars. She switched off the engine, but before she could open the car door, David's arm was about her and was drawing her closer to him. Venetia drew away at once, but he seemed not to notice the movement. He pulled her suddenly quite close and kissed her forcefully on the lips. Venetia jerked her head away. 'David!' she protested, astonished. 'Oh, come on, Venetia. We've had a lovely evening, let's give it a lovely ending.' And he held her in a hard grip that there was no escaping, and kissed her again, on eyes and cheeks and lips. Venetia was reduced to struggling with him, a development that, alas, only seemed to spur him on to more intimacy. At last she released an arm from his grip and succeeded in opening the car door. He leaned across her, trying to close it again, and in doing so lost some of his balance, so that she managed to elude him and almost tumbled out of the car. 'Don't be a fool, Venetia,' he said, and opened the door on his side, trying to intercept her as she came between two cars. He caught her and swung her round to face him. 'Have you lost your senses?' she demanded angrily. 'Let me go at once!'

"There's no need to take it like that, Venetia.' 'Letmego!' A voice spoke out of the darkness behind them. 'I should do as the senorita asks, and let her go,' it said, with sufficient authority for David Buckford to release Venetia at once. But he turned angrily to the intruder. 'Who the devil are you ?' he demanded. 'Andres Rafael de Arevalo y Llorento. And you ?' 'What's it got to do with you?' the remark was insolent and challenging and Venetia could hardly believe it was the same person as the young man who had been so friendly all day. 'My chief concern is that you should pester Miss Hamilton no longer. The senorita is in my charge. You would do well to apologise and take yourself away.' He took himself away, without the apology, and Don Andres turned back to Venetia. She was leaning on the car, shaking violently. 'Come, come,' he said, consolingly. 'All is well. You are quite safe.' He put a hand on her shoulder and she turned at once to him. 'Oh, senor,' she said, but she was shaking so much she was afraid her teeth would chatter, and gave up the effort to speak. She leaned on Don Andres, and he held her comfortingly in his arms until the shaking had stopped: timeless moments of silent consolation. Then he said: 'Come, we will go inside. I think you need a drink.' He took the key from the ignition, picked up Venetia's bag for her,

locked the car and, with a hand at her elbow, guided her into the wide hall of the parador. There was no sign of David Buckford. A waiter appeared immediately as Don Andres clicked his fingers. He ordered brandies. 'Please,' said Venetia. 'I don't like brandy. Could I have something else?' He ordered her a large sherry. 'What happened, senorita ? Did you give him a lift?' 'Not this evening, senor. At lunch-time to-day. He was coming to this parador. And then he told me of the fiesta and said it might be interesting, so we went together. And really, his behaviour was irreproachable.' 'Not when I saw him.' Don Andres' tone was grimmer than Venetia had yet heard it. 'No, I can't understand it. He turned into a raging wolf.' The Don was silent. He did not need to speak. Venetia knew it all, and felt the disapproval he would not, for the moment, put into words. This sort of incident vindicated his attitude and indicted hers. She had been put wholly in the wrong, and, still somewhat shaken by what had happened, she had no justification whatever. 'I can only thank you, senor, for your intervention, and be thankful you were here. But why were you here?' 'We will come to that to-morrow,' he said. 'I think you have had enough for to-day. When you have finished your sherry, you had better go to bed; and I will talk to you in the morning.' 'Are you going back to the castillo?'

'No, I shall stay here. I am sure they will find room for me.' Venetia was also sure of it. 'At what time will you take breakfast with me in the morning, senorita?' 'Nine o'clock? Half past? Whatever suits you.' 'Nine o'clock, then. Come, I'll take you to your room.' They crossed the splendid sala together and walked the long corridor to her door. There they shook hands with all formality, and Don Andres unlocked her door for her and waited while she went inside. Venetia stood still, with her back to the closed door, a bewildering number of emotions struggling within her for supremacy. She was still quite shaken by the change in David Buckford and his unexpected attack on her, and surprised at herself for not seeing that this might happen. What she had taken as the light-heartedness of the occasion (the hand-holding as they hurried through the streets, his protective arm about her in the crowd), he had seen as an encouragement to intimacy. She was furious with herself for having been found in such a position, and still more furious because it was Don Andres who had found her. She was grateful to him in one way, yet resentful in another. She flung her handbag on to the bed in a sudden access of frustration. 'It would have to be Senor de Arevalo who found me at such a disadvantage !' He had said nothing disapproving. He had, surprisingly, been forbearing and kind, holding her gently while her trembling subsided. Yet she knew only too well that the disapproval was there, and knew that it would be even stronger if he knew how she has passed her evening. While she was in bed and lying in the darkness, waiting for sleep, she wondered what had brought him here. Obviously, he must

have come to see her, but she could not imagine why. He must have been strolling in the night air, and seen the return of her car. She could think of no reason for his visit. Her mind looked at all kinds of improbable things before sleep claimed her. Next morning she dressed with care for breakfast with him. She put her hair up, which always made her look dignified, and she wore a blue linen dress of simple cut which made her look well groomed. She made up with care, and wore a wide silver bracelet with turquoises set into it. That ought to do,' she told her reflection. 'Perhaps that will make him forget the faded jeans and the brief bikini.' He was waiting for her in the severely furnished dining-room of the parador. His dark eyes had a speculative look in them as he took in her correct, formaland very attractiveappearance. 'I hope you are recovered this morning,' he said, holding her chair for her. 'Yes, thank you.' She sat down, unfurling her napkin, and he insisted upon ordering an egg dish for her as well as the usual Continental breakfast. While they waited for it, and after she had poured coffee for them both, she said: 'I would like to explain, senor, about last night...' 'There is no necessity,' he interrupted her. 'But I would like to tell you.' 'And I don't want to hear.'

Obstinate dark eyes met angry grey-green ones, and the long glance they exchanged was like a crossing of swords. Then Venetia said: 'No, why should you want to hear? It can't possibly be important to you. Go on thinking the worst, by all means.' 'What I am thinking about you at the moment, senorita, is that you certainly seem to need somebody to look after you.' Venetia was silent. Yes, she supposed this was how it seemed to him. He had rescued her when her car broke down and given her hospitality, and as soon as she set off on her own again, he had again come to the rescue. 'I seem to be very much in your debt, senor,' she said. 'Well, we will not talk about debts. Instead, I will tell you what I had in mind when I followed you here.' Venetia noticed the emphasis on the past tense. 'Does that mean that you no longer have it in mind?' she asked him. 'I'm not sure. Yesterday morning, after you had left the castillo, a letter arrived for Joaquina with the rest of the mail, and another for her mother. Both from England, both inviting Joaquina for a visit to Hampshire. The one for Joaquina was from a young man who spent several weeks with us last year and who has written to her many times since then. The other was from his parents, endorsing the invitation, assuring the senora that they would be delighted to welcome Joaquina and look after her.' He paused. Venetia, glancing up at him, asked:

'And will Joaquina go to England?' 'She is longing to go.' There was irony in his voice. 'Her mama is also anxious for her to go, because the young man's father is a lord, and he too will be a lord when his father dies. Also, the family is rich, which the senora is not, having to depend upon me, and she is anxious for her daughters to marry well. But from Joaquina who, I am sure you have noticed, is always so sweet and calm there were storms of tears, because she speaks so little English and will feel at a disadvantage. And the one person who might have concentrated on improving her English and helping her to speak well between now and the end of May had left the castillo that very morning.' 'Ah, this is where I come in,' said Venetia. 'Or rather, where I might have come in if I had not shown myself to be such a foolish person, unable to discriminate between the sheep and the goats.' 'Precisely. You may have noticed that it is Anninha who speaks the best and the most English. Emilia and Joaquina do not have a gift for languages. Emilia is lazy; but Joaquina now has the incentive to make her learn. It would be good for all three to speak English, and I offered to employ somebody to teach them. But to find somebody suitable would take time. Also...' 'Also?' prompted Venetia. 'They want you.' She smiled at him. Her eyes sparkled and her lips curved provocatively, and there was challenge in her expression and more than a hint of impudence. 'And you don't,' she said. 'You think I am a bad influence.'

'I think a little discipline would not hurt you, senorita. But I want my young cousins to be contented; and you are a teacher and you speak a charming English. So I consented to follow you and ask you to return to us.' 'And are you asking me, senor, or have you changed your mind?' Again, they exchanged a long look before he said: 'I am asking you, senorita.' That was hard for him, thought Venetia. He would like to be able to command, and he had to ask. She said: 'I'm not sure that I want to come. I teach all the year round, and it's hard work and exhausting. I am on holiday now.' But he had gone as far as he meant to go. He would not plead with her. 'That is entirely your decision, naturally. May I have some more coffee, senorita? Thank you. And would you like anything else?' 'No, that was a splendid breakfast. Just another cup of coffee Oh, this is cold now...' 'We will have fresh.' His upraised hand brought the waiter quickly, and the coffee almost at once. They sat opposite each other with fresh cups of coffee. 'How long do you need to make your decision?' he asked. 'On what terms, exactly, would I be coming back to the castillo, senor? I would like to be able to call my soul my own.'

'You need not be afraid that you will Work too hard. I've no doubt my young cousins will be quickly exhausted by learning. English conversation once or twice a day will be enough for them, I'm sure. And if it is a question of salary, we can discuss that now.' 'Oh, I don't want a salary,' said Venetia quickly. 'Nonsense. If you work for us, you must have recompense for it.' 'Not at all. If I'm paid a salary, it makes me a servant in your house; and I would rather be a guest.... If this is not acceptable to you, I will go on my way.' 'My God, you're a self-possessed young woman,' he said, his dark eyes smouldering. 'You're determined to put us all under an obligation to you.' Suddenly, Venetia realised that this was true. All the time, she was, under the surface, challenging him, being obstructive and difficult. This was not really her nature at all. He saw the thought behind the grey-green eyes, the struggle that went on in her. 'Oh, I'm sorry,' she said, and her voice was soft and charming and her whole expression had changed. 'I am being bitchy. Because I know it's the other way round, and I'm under an obligation to you. Yes, I will come back with you and teach Joaquina to speak English.' She reached a hand towards him, intending to shake his in agreement; but he took hers into a firm clasp and held it for an appreciable time before he gave it a grip that nearly broke its bones, and let it go. 'As a guest,' he confirmed. 'As a guest. Thank you, senor.'

'And, at the risk of whipping up that fiery temper of yours again, senorita, you will... try a little to do as the Romans do?' She looked at him for a long moment. Then she laughed. 'You seeyou win. Goodbye, informality. Goodbye, bikini.... But don't let the atmosphere smother me completely, senor.' A look of pain passed momentarily over his face, but was quickly gone. Was she in danger of smothering in his much-loved castillo? He looked back at her from thoughtful, sombre eyes. 'We will let you go before you are quite "done for", senorita,' he said quietly.

CHAPTER IV SHE came back to the castle on a different footing from the old one. 'I was almost a vagrant last time,' she told herself, 'but now I am an invited guest.' The sisters were delighted to see her, especially Joaquina, who now saw her as a means to a desired end, and Anninha, whose independent spirit recognised another one in Venetia. 'Perhaps you would prefer another room,' said Senora de los Reyes. 'Don Andres suggested that one for you before, because it was historic and interesting; but it is not very comfortable.' 'No, I love it there,' Venetia said decidedly; but when she returned to the room after lunch, she saw that a very comfortable armchair had been moved in, and a small but beautiful old writing-table. She did indeed like her room and small private bathroom, and particularly liked the outlook from her wide window over the garden and the pool. She tried from the outset to set up regular times for English lessons (and was pleased to realise how much Spanish she would learn at the same time); but this did not suit the girls at all. Apparently, they would improve their English when it did not interfere with anything else. Mass came before everything else and certainly before English. Riding came before it. Any invitation also. But as they were usually around when it was time for morning coffee, between eleven and twelve, Venetia insisted upon a lesson then. There was another after siesta, always provided nothing intervened. Only Joaquina showed a real diligence and often sat with Venetia without her sisters, ardently learning, spurred on, Venetia thought, by love. For there was, apparently, a much stronger bond between Joaquina and this young man in England than the senor had suggested, perhaps stronger than he knew.

She rarely saw Don Andres before luncheon at three o'clock, or if she did it was always at a distance. Leaving the courtyard on horseback (she would never forget the splendid and imperious picture horse and rider made) or in his luxurious car; or, when she and the girls were at their poolside lesson, leaving the house with Senor de Quevedo on estate affairs. She gradually learned more about him. His estate was indeed farreaching. It took in almost all of that green valley and its peripheral forest or woodland that she had seen from the top of the old castle wall, and a great stretch of the bare mountain too. He owned most of the village, although he was allowing an increasing number of the occupants to buy their houses if they could afford to do so. He also owned a considerable stretch of land at the coast. Such land was a veritable goldmine. 'It was worth nothing at the time of the Civil War,' Joaquina told her, in the course of one of their conversations. 'Don Andres says one could not have given it away. It was very poor. Now with all this urbanizacion it is worth millions; and he is developing his like most of the other landowners. He was rich before, but this land would make him wealthy anyway.' Although Venetia was interested to learn whatever she could about her host, she suggested to Joaquina that it was not a good thing to speak of family affairs before strangers. Her own observation taught her a good deal. Conversations at lunch or dinner were usually unproductive, and she realised that Don Andres did not take the women of the family into his confidence. Venetia was keeping her part of the bargain by conforming to the customs of the country. She swam in a one-piece costume that covered more of her than she thought desirable. She had

telephoned her home in England to tell her parents of her plans and asked them to send out more of her clothes, and from then on rode out in the morning formally attired. One evening, however, soon after her return to the castillo, she excused herself just before midnight. The senora and her daughters always sat in the sala and it was delightfully cool there. It was also boring, since the presence of their mother inhibited the girls to a crushing extent. They had grown accustomed to Venetia retiring at half past eleven or thereabouts, and Venetia had started a habit of reading comfortably in bed. To-night, she went first through the main hall and out into the night. The air struck soft and warm on her skin and on impulse she decided to swim. She went up to her room to change. From the window, she saw a slender quarter moon, giving very little light but enough to see the dark space of the pool and the lighter paving round it, and a faint glow over the immense old walls and further countryside. She put on her bikini and the towelling robe, slipped her feet into sandals, picked up a towel and left the building by the spiral staircase and side door she had only recently discovered. She emerged into the garden on a narrow path between flowering trees, and made her way to the pool. She tossed the towel and robe on to a chair, kicked off the sandals and stood on the pool edge, stretching her arms above her head, then out to the side, then slowly dropping them. Suddenly, she was very happy. The silence everywhere, almost a hush: the soft, scented night and the warm air on her skin filled her with a content which was almost like a blessing. She went into the water in a shallow dive, noiseless, swimming under water and coming up with her hair spreading on the surface around her.

She swam lazily, quietly, to and fro, to and fro. She sat on the side to rest, and slid in again; but at last, emerged to dry herself. She put on the towelling coat and walked slowly around the pool trailing her towel, reluctant even now to go indoors to bed. As she passed the pavilion, she was suddenly stopped in her tracks, startled to see the red glow from what must be a cigar or cigarette. A cigar, she decided, as its aroma reached her across the paving. She was about to ask who was there, although she imagined it could be only one person, when Don Andres said quietly: 'Buenos tardes, senorita.' 'Buenas tardes, senor.' 'Come and sit down. It is unusually warm to-night.' She joined him at the wide doorway of the pavilion. He set a chair for her and she sank down into it. 'Are you going to swim ?' she asked him. 'I have been swimming.' 'But the pool hadn't a ripple when I came out.' 'No. I have been sitting here thinking.' And watching me, thought Venetia. And knowing that I wear my bikini whenever I have the chance. 'You should have let me know you were here.' 'And intruded on your swimming, which you seemed particularly to enjoy?'

'I did enjoy it. It was heavenly,' she admitted. 'You won't catch cold?' 'On this night? So warm?' 'You should dry your hair, senorita.' 'I can't be bothered,' she said. She had a sudden impulse to say to him: 'Do it for me,' as she might have said to a friend at home, and could imagine his consternation. 'Who, I?' she could imagine him saying, and wondered if he had ever dried a woman's hair for her. Probably not, in this country where the women spent hours with their hairdresser and wore caps for their swimming. She pulled her long hair over one shoulder and began to dry it in a lazy fashion. 'How goes the teaching?' he asked her. 'It is a sinecure, senor. We have conversations. But of course we are all improving, the girls in English and I in Spanish. Joaquina is advancing by leaps and bounds.' 'You are able to discipline them?' 'I don't try. They make it plain to me that they will learn English when they please. As long as I know they are improving, that is good enough.' They sat in silence for a few moments. Thin cloud had passed over the crescent moon and dimmed its faint light still more. They were almost in darkness.

'You are not, perhaps, very good at maintaining discipline, senorita?' he said then, and there was a hint of amusement in his voice. 'On the contrary. I am very good at it. I'll tell you something, senor, that may surprise you.' She paused, and he said politely: 'Please do.' 'I resigned from my last job because I was too much of a disciplinarian.' 'I can hardly believe that, senorita.' 'It is true.' 'I understood you left because of strong disagreement with your headmistress.' 'Over discipline, senor. The way she ran her school, the pupils had almost taken over. We disagreed fundamentally. I was always a thorn in her side. (I seem to be good at that). I believe that children like discipline, the right amount. It gives them guidelines, saves them wasting time wandering all over the place finding the way for themselves.' 'You surprise me, I must admit.' 'Because you think I lack discipline? Well, I think there is too much of it here. I'm sure you would be horrified, senor, to know what some classes are like in some English schools' 'Perhaps I should. Enlighten me.'

'NoI think I'm talking too much. Excuse me.' 'I want to hear. I am enjoying our talk.' She was silent for a long time. He said: 'Are you not enjoying it?' 'I didn't think you would be interestedI was going to try to prove to you that I am a good disciplinarian. Our school is very mixed: middle class from a good neighbourhood and working class from a dockland area. They gave me an almost hopeless class of girls. They weren't interested in learningthey were interested in disrupting discipline. They talked to each other across the class while I was trying to teach them, they threw things about, they wrote notes and ate sweets, they were insolent to me. So I walked out and left them, one afternoon when they were exceptionally noisy. I went to the mistresses' common room and corrected homework and I didn't go back. Nor did I go next morning. 'It was a battle of wills. Who would give in first? They sent a reasonably good girl to ask if I was going back, and I said no, not to waste my time trying to teach such an unpleasant lot of people. Later on, they sent another to remind me that the register had not been marked, so I told her they could do it themselves. Then just before the end of morning school, a small deputation arrived. "We'll behave ourselves if you come back to the form room, Miss Hamilton," they said.' 'And did they?' asked Don Andres from the darkness. 'Of course not, not all the time. But we had a relationship from then on. I had made my presence felt.' 'Surely that is an isolated case?'

'By no means. Can you imagine this happening in Spain?' 'Certainly not,' he said. 'And did I prove my point?' 'Indeed. You told me a great deal about yourself.' 'Oh, you were bored. I'm sorry,' said Venetia. "That was not what I meant at all. Come, you'll get cold, the air is growing chilly. I have coffee ready in my study, you must come and join me.' What next? wondered Venetia. This was surely a signal honour. They left the pavilion and walked together into the house, through that baronial hall, and to a door in that long, flagged corridor that had not yet been opened to her. It was a large and lofty study, the crimson curtains drawn over the windows, a fire laid ready to light in the stone fireplace. Modern comforts had been added to Spanish austerity in the shape of deep, soft chesterfields in red leather, glowing oriental rugs on the floor, a large square coffee table on which his coffee tray stood ready. The walls were lined with dark bookcases holding thousands of books in vari-coloured bindings, many of them leather. His large business-like desk stood before the windows. Don Andres plugged in the coffee pot and switched on. 'Please sit down, senorita.' 'No, I'm too wet, thank you.'

'You can't hurt this one,' pulling forward an antique chair with a single strip of hide for its seat. 'You like your coffee black?' 'Is there cream?' she asked. 'Or milk?' 'I think so.' The pot switched itself off and Don Andres went to the cupboard base of a tall bookcase. When he opened it, a refrigerator was revealed inside, and that was opened to reveal a multiplicity of bottles among which was a bottle of milk. 'Very little, please, if it's icy cold,' said Venetia. 'I think it is cool in here. Shall I light the fire?' 'No, indeed. I'm going to bed as soon as I've had my coffee.' They sat in companionable silence drinking their coffee. The strangeness of her situation struck Venetia again, that they should be the only people up in this old castle, drinking coffee together. And I without a chaperone, she thought with amusement, and only a towelling robe over my bikini. This, surely, was another thing no well-brought-up Spanish girl would do. She rose to her feet. Thank you, senor, that was lovely. Now I will bid you good-night.' He went with her to the door. 'I think you know your way.' 'Yes, I do.' 'And you're not frightened?' 'Of course not. Why should I be frightened?'

'Of the dark.' Venetia smiled. 'No. And I know where all the switches are. Buenas noches, senor.' 'Buenas noches' He held out his hand and she put hers into it. For long moments, his dark eyes, which were so unreadable, looked down into hers. Venetia felt her pulse quicken and her heart begin to thump, and suddenly, unreasoningly, cowardice rose up in her, and she withdrew her hand, turned away from him and began to walk along the stone-flagged corridor, knowing that she must cut a most incongruous figure in her robe and sandals with her hair spread out over her shoulders, in this severe Spanish castle in the dead of night. In her room, she took off her damp things and ran a hot bath. As she lay in the scented water, she thought they had never been so friendly, Don Andres de Arevalo and herself. It had been a pleasant interlude indeed. In fact, Venetia, she told herself with a rueful smile, as long as you toe the line, all is well. But be careful not to stray from it, or you will once more arouse his displeasure. But, in spite of her own good advice to herself, it was all too short a time before she strayed.

The three girls came to join Venetia in the pool garden for their morning coffee and their English conversation. The maids, Inez and Pascuala, arrived with the trays and began to serve. 'Cafe for la senorita?' or chocolate, or milk, or fruit juice. The girls always fussed over their choice. And over the savoury bonnes-bouches and sweet ones.

At these sessions, Venetia insisted that every word should be in English. If they did not know the word, she supplied it. All three were now progressing quickly. 'Do you know, Venetia, we are to have a visit from one of your countrymen,' Anninha informed her that morning. 'Is it John?' asked Venetia quickly. 'No, no,' said Joaquina, 'it is not Juan.' 'In England,' said Venetia, 'you must call him John.' 'It is a friend of John. He is in Spain staying with friends in Marbella. And he has written to Mama and he has a present for Joaquina from John. So Mama has invited him and he will stay with us some days.' 'For several days,' suggested Venetia. 'It will be nice for youno ?' asked Emilia. 'I hope it will be nice for all of us,' Venetia said. The visit was eagerly awaited by them all. They did not lack for company, but nor did they entertain as much as Venetia would have expected them to. There were a good many of the allfeminine parties, but young men seemed scarce. Perhaps Anninha was too young, Joaquina spoken for and Emilia not attractive enough. Or did young men find their guardian rather daunting? So the girls waited impatiently for John's friend to arrive; and he came one morning when Venetia had driven to the village, intending to return in time for the English session. When she drove back through the high archway into the courtyard, she found her

car blocked by a small crowd of people, two cars and several horses. Apparently, the new arrival in his car, the girls returning from riding, and Don Andres and Senor de Quevedo had all converged in the courtyard at the same time, and stayed for introductions. A groom was leading the horses away, and a babble of talk came from the group of people. As Venetia came to a stop, unable to drive past, they turned to look towards her. She stepped out of the car, smiling, advancing towards them. Then a familiar voice called out: 'Venetia!' She looked in astonishment at the young man who had turned to face her. 'Toby!' she cried, and next moment they had met, both hands extended to each other, and then they were in each other's arms, hugging each other in delight. The rest of the party looked on, astounded. 'Venetia! It can't be.' 'Toby, what a coincidence!' 'What on earth are you doing here?' 'Oh, it's a long story. Later.' 'But it's good to see you. What a wonderful surprise.' 'Yes, for me, too.' They stood back from each other, smiling. Don Andres said drily:

'It seems that introductions are not necessary.' Venetia turned swiftly to him. 'Do excuse us,' she said. 'It was such an unexpected surprise. Toby and I are old friends.' Then it occurred to her that this might give him a wrong impression. 'At least, Toby and my brother are old friends, and I am allowed in on the periphery, as it were.' He looked decidedly sceptical, and Venetia admitted that appearances might imply that she was at the centre of things rather than on the periphery. 'I'm here,' said Toby, 'as the friend of old John.' 'John? Not John d'EIboux?' 'Of course, John d'EIboux. Senorita de los Reyes is coming to stay with the d'EIboux during the season.' 'Well, well...' said Venetia. The sisters had watched this interchange in silence, perplexed, not sure if they were following the conversation aright. But now, Joaquina asked : 'Does this mean that you know Senor Juan d'EIboux, Venetia?' Venetia turned to her at once. 'Indeed I do, Joaquina. He and Toby here and my brother Timothy used to be the plague of my life during holidays. They were all at school together and used to stay at each other's houses. They were horrors ... oh, but they've improved enormously since then. Especially John.'

'When I go to England, will I see you also?' 'Indeed you will if you want to, Joaquina.' 'I think,' Don Andres interposed, 'that you should take our guest inside and present him to your mother.' He turned to the new arrival. 'And if you will excuse us, senor, Senor de Quevedo and I have business to attend to.' The two men walked towards Don Andres' car and the four young women went into the castle with their guest. Toby Nettleton was an attractive young man, fresh-faced, brownhaired, with a charming and engaging manner which drew people to him immediately. He was six feet tall, a sportsman, well educated, and with a certain knowledge of, and liking for, the arts. Venetia was a year older than he was, but could remember a time during adolescence when she had indulged in day-dreams on his account, and for months had nursed a hopeless passion. She smiled to remember it now: now that they had a mutual liking but had turned to different ideals. Senora de los Reyes awaited them in the sala, and the usual variety of drinks and food was brought in almost immediately. Now the girls chattered with their usual speed: of the unusual coincidence of Venetia knowing Toby, and John, and of their families knowing each other in England. The senora was perplexed. She had not suspected Venetia of having that kind of background. 'Does this mean,' she asked Venetia, 'that your father is an English lord too ?' 'No,' laughed Venetia. 'Not at all.' 'But he is a knight,' put in Toby.

'What exactly does that mean, senor?' 'It means he is called Sir Duncan Hamilton and Venetia's mother is Lady Hamilton; but nothing at all to do with the naughty one of history.' This was perplexing to the senora, who knew nothing of the hierarchy of countries other than her own. 'And your brother will be Sir Hamilton when your father dies ?' she asked Venetia. 'No, senora. The title is for my father's lifetime. He was knighted for his services to science.' The senora gave up trying to solve such mysteries, but almost unconsciously her attitude to Venetia underwent a change and became less critical and aloof. The arrival of Toby Nettleton brought a rush of social activity. The young men of the area were sought out to provide him with company and were also invited for swimmingand now there was much more actual swimming. They in turn invited Toby to play tennis and the girls went to watch. The morning ride was now more like a pony-trekking expedition, Venetia thought. An impromptu dance was organised at the castillo (and Don Andres did not put in an appearance) and a large party was arranged for the bullfight. 'You can count me out of that,' said Venetia decidedly. 'You mean you won't go?' asked Anninha. 'No, thank you. I won't go.'

'But it will be a splendid occasion, Venetia.' Thank you, but I don't like bullfighting.' They recognised finality in her tone and did not press her. It was a splendid, whirlwind week. English lessons went by the board, but as the girls were practising their considerably improved English on Toby, Venetia thought it did not matter. Toby himself, a marvel of diplomacy, did not show special favour to any one of the sisters. He teased Anninha, was courteous and charming to Emilia and Joaquina. If he showed any preference, it was for Venetia herself. With her, he walked with linked arms or swinging her hand in his. In the pool, he would catch her by her long hair; out of it, he would throw her in. 'Oh, grow up, Toby,' pleaded Venetia, who thought that this kind of horseplay would be misunderstood by her Spanish hosts. But on the night before he was to leave, she left him talking with the others in the sala and slipped out alone to swim in the darkness. And he, having the same idea, slipped out later and found her there. 'Is that you, Venetia?' he asked softly, seeing the stirring of the water. 'Yes. It's lovely, in.' He dived in, coming up beside her. 'So this is where you got to. Do you often do this?' 'Quite often. I like it at night, in the darkness.' 'Isn't there an underwater light?'

'Yes, one at each end, but I like it like this.' 'Oh, let's see the effect,' said Toby. 'It should look marvellous in this setting. Where is the switch?' 'Just inside the pavilion.' He climbed out and went to switch on the underwater lights. They beamed out with sudden brilliance, the water a clear, luminous aquamarine blue; and the light reflecting skyward, shining on the trees and shrubs and the roses on the walls, softening the muted red and pink of those vast old walls, and darkening still more intensely the darkness outside the range of the lights. 'Isn't that something?' asked Toby, standing on the edge above her. 'You look like a mermaid down there, quite ethereal. Come out and see what it looks like.' She climbed out and stood beside him and he slipped an arm about her. The magic of the night and the beautiful setting had entered a little into both of them. 'I wish I wasn't going to-morrow,' Toby said. 'Do you have to? I'm sure they'd like to keep you here.' 'Yes, I'm afraid I have to. I'm using up my whole leave for the year, as it is; and it's back to the grindstone for me on Monday. Lucky you, Venetia, being able to stay on.' 'It's been marvellous having you here. The girls will feel shockingly deprived when you've gone.' 'Don't they come out and swim?'

'Not much during the day. Certainly not at night. They sit in the sala, gossiping away, until it's time for bed. I like it that way, having the pool to myself.' 'And now I've butted in.' 'You're welcome.' 'Bless you, Venetia.' He leaned down and kissed her wet shoulder. 'You look very gorgeous, you know, poppet, among all these black-browed senoritas. I should think you're driving them wild with envy.' She turned her face up to him, laughing. He smiled down at her, then leaned down and set his cheek against hers, rubbing it gently. 'I used to have quite a thing about you, Venetia,' he admitted. 'Some years back.' 'No, really? Oh, Toby, I had one about you too. I used to daydream about you, fantastic adventures.' They laughed together. 'Come on,' she said. 'A last swim and then to bed.' They dived in together. They swam, side by side, the length of the pool, and back again, in the clear, brilliant, aquamarine water, and then climbed out. 'I do wish you'd put off the light,' Venetia said. 'We have no idea who might be watching us.' 'Would it matter?' he asked, and went to do as she asked.

'I'm sure the senora wouldn't approve,' Venetia said, blinded by the darkness after the glowing light. They stood drying themselves, and then put on their robes and sandals and began to walk back together through the darkness of the garden. They said good-night at the bottom of the spiral stairs, and Toby went to find his room while Venetia made her way up the staircase. Next morning he left, and for all the girls there was a feeling of anticlimax. They met for their English session at coffee time, Inez and Pascuala appeared with the trays, and the routine was no different from any other time; but they were listless and bored, and Emilia and Anninha were inclined to be jealous because Joaquina was going to England. Before Toby's arrival, they had been quite indifferent about the visit. Don Andres said at lunch-time: 'What a singularly lifeless occasion this is,' he looked from one girl to the next and the next. 'Where is all the vitality, all the sparkling conversation we have enjoyed for the past week?' 'It is very dull here without any young men,' Anninha told him; and her reply was so naive and artless that he laughed at her, showing splendidly even white teeth, and even the senora smiled. 'Am I so old?' he asked her, still smiling. 'Dear Don Andres, of course not. But you do not count,' Anninha said, and it was obvious that in her eyes at least Don Andres was not young enough to be interesting. During the afternoon, when the usual siesta hush had fallen over the castle, Venetia took her books, writing paper and diary into the garden. She wrote letters to her mother and to Rosemary and then turned to her diary, which had been neglected during Toby's visit.

When she was tired of writing, she climbed the old stone steps that led to the top of the castle wall, to refresh herself with the breeze that almost always blew across the mountains; and only when she thought that the afternoon drinks would soon be served did she come down again, walk through the garden and into the main hall, meeting nobody and thinking that everybody was enjoying a long siesta. As she walked through the long hall, Don Andres came into it from the opposite end. 'You didn't want to go with the senoritas?' he asked her. 'I didn't know they had gone anywhere.' To take coffee, I believe, with friends.' 'I was writing in the garden, but I didn't want to go out in any case. Don Andres, have you some postage stamps, please? I seem to have run out.' 'Haven't they put stamps in your writing-table for you?' 'Oh, I haven't looked. Perhaps they have.' 'Well, come to my study and I'll give you some, in case it has been overlooked.' They went together to his study and now the curtains were drawn back and the sun sloped in, and she saw the room in its daytime aspect and thought it even more attractive. She understood why he withdrew to it so often. This was his private place. Nobody intruded on him here. Here he was free of the chatter and trivialities enjoyed by the sisters. Here he talked to Senor de

Quevedo and Father Ignatio and other men who came to see him in friendship or on business. He took a folder from a drawer, opened it to reveal sheets of stamps, and tore off a generous selection for her. 'You are feeling sad today, senorita, I think.' 'I? No, not at all. Why should I be said, senor?' 'Because your good friend Toby has gone away.' 'No, not in the least,' she assured him lightly. 'The senoritas are more sorry than I am, I think.' 'You take your relationships very lightly, senorita.' 'My relationship with Toby, certainly. He is just an old friend. Much more my brother's friend than mine.' She was slightly on her guard. There was something in the tone of his voice that indicated more than passing-the-time remarks. 'That was not the impression I received.' 'Then you did not receive the right impression, senor. There is nothing between myself and Toby.' 'It seemed to me there was very much,' he said sternly. 'Am I about to have another lecture?' she asked, and there was a warning note in her voice that her family would have recognised, and even the undisciplined girls of her form at school. If the senor heard it, he ignored it.

'If you want me to believe that you are speaking the truth about yourself and this young man, you should not switch on the lights of the swimming pool,' he said. 'Oh, you've been spying,' Venetia said disdainfully. 'If you can call it spying when someone attracts attention to herself by switching on the lights. I was in my room and the lights shining upwards drew my notice at once. I believe that any casual observer would have gone to the window to look down.' 'No observer, casual or otherwise, could have seen anything to take objection to,' said Venetia coldly. 'Except that you seem to make yourself available to any young man who happens along.' She saw that he was angry about something, and his last words caused an answering anger to rise up in herself. 'How dare you say such a thing to me! You are always so carping and critical and sitting in judgment...' 'I dare to say it because it seems to me to be true. You embrace and caress, and then you tell me there is nothing between you.' 'Oh, you have it all wrong,' exclaimed Venetia. 'You simply don't understand. We simply have different standards.' 'No, I don't understand. And I'm glad we have different standards if yours allow you to be so free with any man...' 'I am not free with Toby!' she denied indignantly.

'At least you had the decency to switch off the lights before committing any further indiscretions,' he said, and there was bitterness in his voice, and contempt too. Venetia gasped. Her anger now was beyond bounds. Almost without her volition or foreknowledge, her hand shot out and she slapped his face with all the force she could muster. 'How dare you?' she said again, the words forcing themselves out between her clenched teeth. They stood glaring at each other, emotion and tension rising so rapidly between them that something surely must give way. Venetia determined that she would not. He was so angry now that she thought he might hit her back. 'You shouldn't have done that,' he said, in a low, hard voice. He took both of her shoulders in an iron-hard grip and Venetia thought he was going to shake her. She was, indeed, already ashamed of that stinging slap. She, who did not believe in violence, who would never dream of slapping a child in her class. Whatever had possessed her? She said suddenly, in a changed voice: 'No, I shouldn't have. I'm sorry. I'm sorry.' They were still staring at each other, and the atmosphere between them was still highly charged with impassioned feeling. Venetia moved slightly as if she would free herself of that vice-like grip; and suddenly, they were in each other's arms, clinging together, closely, almost despairingly. Venetia could feel the angry thudding of his heartbeat, and could hardly breathe in the closeness of his clasp; yet realised that she, too, was holding him as if she would never let him go. Moments passed, and the tension began to subside. Slowly, slowly, the fierceness and anger began to drain away from them, began to

be replaced by something else, and there was still closeness but also a kind of tenderness, in the way they held each other. Until, at length, even that was gone, and there remained the mystery of why they had behaved as they had at all. Don Andres released her, but Venetia did not step away from him. She rested her face for a few moments against his shoulder, feeling quite spent by those few moments of irrational anger. And at last she turned away from him, unable to meet his eyes, and looked out across the desk at the lawn and the trees and shrubs. There was a long silence between them. Venetia took a deep breath and released it in a ragged sigh. At last, since somebody must say something sooner or later, she said: 'What a storm in a tea cup!' 'Indeed,' his deep voice said behind her. 'That's where anger gets one.' 'You were as angry as I,' she accused him. 'I know.' 'But I had more justification. You should not have said such a thing to me,' she insisted. 'Are we going to start quarrelling again?' he asked, and his hand was on her arm, turning her round to face him. 'No,' she said, lifting her clear eyes to his. 'But if you don't have faith in me, how can I stay here?' 'Can I have faith in you?' he asked, dark eyes searching hers.

'Don't you know?' she asked. 'How can I know, Venetia?' 'Because I told you so. I said there is nothing between Toby and me, and that's the truth. Though God knows what it has to do with you, and why you should be so furious with me.' She was silent for a moment, and there was a hint of dejection in her silence. Then she went on: 'I'm conforming to standards as you asked me to, but surely my private life is my own. Or do you want to own everybody who lives inside your castillo?'' They were silent again. Venetia saw that there was a dark red patch mingled with the tan of his dark skin. Then he said: 'I apologise for implying that you might have committed any indiscretion with your friend. Your forthright manner is, I fear, misleading. You stood on the side of the pool, kissing, and then the lights went out.' 'Not kissing,' she said. 'He put his cheek on mine, that's all. Like this.' She reached up to him and set her cheek gently against his where she had slapped it. 'Oh,' she said, 'it's burning.' 'It was quite a slap,' he said. 'It hurt my hand,' she confessed. 'Perhaps more than it hurt you.' 'I sincerely hope so. You deserve it. Well, is my apology accepted?' 'Yes. And mine, for losing my dignity so far as to slap you?' 'You were provoked,' he said solemnly.

'And now you know, Don Andres Rafael, what happens when you provoke an English girl.' 'It's not so different, my dear Venetia, from when I provoke a Spanish one.' There was suddenly a glint of humour in his dark eyes, and Venetia's attention was arrested. She could not believe that many Spanish senoritas had slapped him, nor that he had provoked them. She found that the thought distinctly irritated her. 'I refuse to be one in a long line of provoked ladies,' she said. 'You cannot help yourself,' and she saw that he was laughing at her; and she laughed too, and put her hand gently against that red mark on his cheek, and then turned away to leave him. 'Don't forget your stamps,' he said. 'That was what you came for.' 'Did I?' asked Venetia, having a sudden suspicion that he had been anxious to pick a quarrel with her. She picked up the stamps and turned towards the door. 'When I met you, I was on my way to find coffee. Would you like to ring for it for me, senor?' 'With pleasure. Why not join me and have it here? The senora is in her room and the girls are out.' 'Thank you.' Venetia turned back into the room and took a seat on one of the deep red leather chesterfields. Matias answered the senor's ring, and reappeared a little later with the coffee and the customary accompanying cakes and pastries. Venetia poured the coffee and the senor took a seat on the opposite chesterfield, placing his cup on the table between them. 'Do you often see this young man Toby when you are at home in England?' he asked her.

'No. Very rarely, in fact. My work keeps me in London all the week, and Toby usually sails from the south coast at weekends. But we meet at occasional parties and he comes to dinner sometimes. My brother crews for him quite oftenit is they who are the friends, senor, as I tried to explain to you.' 'I accept that. But I'm sure there must be many others whom you do see a great deal.' 'Well, of course, I do manage a social life, but being a teacher is quite hard work. I do a good deal of marking and preparing in the evenings, and I get tired if I go junketing during the week.' 'Is there one special person? Are you betrothed?' She smiled at the somewhat archaic word, and shook her head. 'Nobody special enough for that,' she said. There was a silence. Venetia helped herself to a thin pastry shell filled with tiny strawberries and cream. The senor wanted only coffee. 'The senora has been trying to explain to me,' he said, 'that your family is very important and that your father has a title. Why then do you do this hard work of teaching?' Venetia smiled again. 'We are not important, senor. Perhaps my father is a little, since he was knighted for services to science. He comes from a very academic family. My mother's father was in business and made a great deal of money, which she inherited, so that I was brought up very comfortably. But that's no reason why I should not work. Everybody works nowadays, in my country at least.... And as I

didn't want to work in a boutique, or be a model or a secretary, or do anything in show business, I sentenced myself to the hard labour I do now.' 'So.' He finished his coffee and set down the empty cup. He was thoughtful, gazing across the. study at the leather bindings on the bookshelves. 'One understands you a little better for knowing your background. One begins to understand how very independent you are, since you need not do this work unless you wished to.' 'Oh, don't make me out to be some kind of militant suffragette,' said Venetia with some irritation. 'You went to university to get your qualifications?' 'And then farther to get my teacher's diploma.' 'And your parents were willing that you should do that?' 'They encouraged me. They saw no reason why I should waste such native intelligence as I had.' 'Life is very different for a young woman in this country. I think a girl in your position would not work.' 'No,' said Venetia drily. 'She would think that marriage was the only safe haven for her.' His voice was even drier when he said: 'There are worse fates.' 'Nor,' added Venetia, 'would she be encouraged overmuch to use her intelligence.'

'Don't imagine they are all fools, senorita,' he said, and his voice was growing sterner. And in a moment, thought Venetia, he will be angry again and we shall quarrel again. And she set her cup on the table opposite his and rose to her feet. He had not risen too, as he did automatically in the usual way. 'Why do we have to fight?' she asked. 'Because we hold strongly opposing views, I suppose, and would like to convert each other.' 'Well, I'm sure I'm not going to convert you,' said Venetia, and gave him a charming yet rueful smile. 'And I despair of converting you,' he told her. 'So we must agree to differ and try to live in peace.' He rose then and walked with her to the door. 'But I'm afraid,' he added, 'that when I brought you here to the castillo when your car broke down, I brought in a disturber of the peace,' 'You can send me away at any time,' she reminded him. 'It may come to that,' he told her, pausing with his hand on the handle before opening the door. She looked up at him in surprise and met his sombre dark gaze fixed thoughtfully on her. She thought he was going to say more and waited expectantly, but at last, with a slight shrug of his shoulders, he opened the door for her to go through, gave her a brief bow and closed the door between them.

CHAPTER V NEXT morning, on Venetia's breakfast tray, there was a letter from Don Andres. The envelope was large and squarish, of thick white paper, and the senor's initials were interwoven in red on the flap. It looked very formal, thought Venetia, and wondered what message it contained. Had he decided, on reflection, that it would be better if she went away ? And if he had, how did she feel about it? There was no doubt that they had a bad effect on each other. He seemed to get angry with her very quickly, and she for her part was always leaping to the defensive. 'He makes me hard,' she thought, 'and I'm not hard at all really. He seems to disapprove of everything I do; and he was certainly ready to think the worst of me.' She took up the knife on her tray and opened the envelope. "Well, here goes.' My dear senorita [she read], I deeply regret that I should have behaved to a guest in my house as I did to you yesterday. I hope you will accept my apology with your customary generosity; and I assure you that shall I not allow it to happen again. As I said to you once before, I have no wish to drive you away. My three young cousins are livelier and happier for your being here and I should not like to deprive them of their new friend. I hope you will stay until Joaquina goes to Englandor indeed, for as long as you are happy here. Most sincerely yours, Andres de Arevalo y Llorento.

Venetia, still with the letter in her hand, stared thoughtfully out of her window at a cloudless blue sky which promised a very hot day. Her first thought was that he wanted her to stay: her next, that it was not on his own account that he wanted it, but for the sake of the sisters. Venetia was happy here in this old castillo. It was already two weeks since the day her car broke down. It would suit her very well to stay three or four weeks longer and return to England when Joaquina left. It was true that for the women of the family it was a lotus-eating existence; but for Venetia herself it was a muchneeded rest from the ardours of teaching her undisciplined girls, and she was certainly having a crash course in Spanish which might be very useful later on. She rode when she wished, drove out in her small car whenever it pleased her, had the beautiful pool for swimming, and did her duty by insisting that the girls learned English. Yesterday afternoon's scene returned to her vividly. Closing her eyes, she could recall exactly how it felt to be in Don Andres' arms, could feel again the passion of anger that had swept them together and that had seeped away to be replaced by something quite different. But the senor need not encounter her except at meal times. The castillo was large enough, in all conscience, for them to avoid each other if that was what he wanted. The Senora de los Reyes managed to lead a life almost completely to herself in her own suite of rooms, except for the contacts at luncheon and dinner. She found herself hoping, however, that he did not intend to go to such lengths as that. She was lazy that morning, getting up after breakfast, having a slow, scented bath, doing her hair up since it was cooler that way.

She wrote letters to friends in England and went down to the garden to find the sisters waiting for her and Pascuala and Teresa to wait upon them. After coffee, the girls sat round one of the wrought-iron whitepainted tables, reading in turn from an English book Venetia had brought with her, a book of childhood reminiscences. 'That was excellent, Anninha,' Venetia said, as Anninha passed the book to Joaquina. 'You are getting a very good English accent.' 'I shall surprise everybody in my English class at school,' she replied, pleased with her own accomplishment. 'Where do you go to school ?' The Convent of Santa Caterina. Only nine more days before I must go back. Thank the Saints that I am allowed to be a weekly boarder. Jose drives me there on Monday morning and brings me back on Friday afternoon.' Venetia thought she would miss her. Joaquina was so quiet and Emilia so dull that it was Anninha, with her vivacity and lively mind, who made the sessions interesting. 'Are the nuns strict with you?' she asked. Anninha shrugged. 'Sometimes. They have tempers, like everybody else, But Don Andres is a benefactor, so for me it is not too hard. I haveer what is the word...?' 'Privileges,' suggested Venetia.

'Yes, privileges,' laughed Anninha, and Venetia thought she would not be above taking advantage of them. The nuns are sweet and charming,' said Joaquina, 'but Anninha would try the patience of the saints.' When Venetia went into the sala before lunch, only Senora de los Reyes was there, her iron-grey hair dressed as severely as usual, complemented by the grey silk of her dress. She nodded graciously to Venetia and asked how the English lessons were progressing. She asked this so often that Venetia wondered if she could find nothing else in common for them to talk about. She explained that Anninha had a talent for languages and was speaking very well. Don Andres came into the room. There were polite greetings all round since it was their first meeting of the day, and he held the senora's hand to his lips for a second. 'A glass of sherry, senora?' he queried, and carried it to her. 'And for the senorita?' glancing at Venetia. He brought it to her where she stood near the window. 'Gracias, senor. Thank you also for your letter. I shall be happy to stay here a little longer.' 'Muy bien. That makes us happy too,' he said formally, and went away immediately to pour his own sherry. 'Don Andres,' said the senora, with more animation in her severe, pale Spanish face than Venetia had yet seen, 'I have splendid news to-day in a letter from South America.' She spoke in Spanish and Don Andres also when he replied. 'From the Trastamaras?' he asked. 'They are coming back, perhaps?'

'Yes. Dona Esperanza writes that they will be here soon after their letter. The whole family is coming, which will be so agreeable for us all. Except the wife and children of Gregorio, who will stay a little longer in Rio with the wife's parents.' 'I'm happy for you, Dona Eulalia. You have missed your friend these three months?' 'I have indeed. We must have a dinner party for them, Andres, when they get here.' 'Of course. They will stay the whole summer?' 'Dona Esperanza writes that they may stay permanently, the men of the family returning to Rio sometimes for business.' 'That is good news,' he said. The three girls came in together and poured fruit juice for themselves. They received the news of the return of the Trastamara family with less than the senora's enthusiasm. Venetia was pleased that she was able to understand all the Spanish conversation, but gave no thought to the subject of it, the Trastamara family, other than that Dona Eulalia had been deprived of her friend's company and was now about to be reunited with her. She had no premonition that life at the castillo might be considerably changed by their arrival. But so it was. A few days later, during the period when the castillo and its occupants were emerging from their siesta, a long and luxurious limousine turned in under the high archway and glided to the massive door of the main hall. Venetia was walking carefully along the top of the old castle wall. Nobody else came

here, but it was a favourite place with her because of the breeze that could usually be felt there. She had progressed as far as one of the round towers joining two of the massive walls, and was leaning against the tower looking out over the countryside and luxuriating in the breeze that stirred her hair and her dress, when she caught sight of the car from the corner of her eye; and turned her head to see what was happening. A chauffeur in immaculate uniform opened the back door of the car and stood at rigid attention while his passenger descended. Dona Eulalia came out of the hall door, all smiles, hands extended, to greet her visitor, a lady as tall, slender and severe-looking as herself. They clasped hands, they leaned forward to kiss each other on both cheeks, they stood for a moment or two in conversation, and they proceeded into the house, erect of carriage, heads held high. 'Very grande dame,' thought Venetia. 'Too Lady Bracknell. I don't wonder that their families are under their thumbs.' But she had to admire the courtesy and invariable good manners which were an intrinsic part of the life here. Senor de Quevedo, speaking to her at lunch one day of the Spanish hero, El Cid, had said that he was the ideal Spaniard, having all the qualities the Spaniard most admired: bravery, fortitude, magnanimity, courtesy. And of course, he added, devotion to his faith. This, thought Venetia, probably made up the true Grandee of Spain. He might be arrogant at times, and proud, but he was not these things alone. He must have the virtues Senor de Quevedo had spoken of. And Don Andres? How did he measure up to all this? If these things were his ideal too, how angry he must have been with

himself for his lapse that afternoon! And in what light could he possibly regard that passionate blow on his cheek? No wonder he had avoided her ever since: for avoid her he had. She met him, with other people, for luncheon and dinner, and that was all. He spoke to her then charmingly, but from a distance: listened to what she had to say, but usually left it to the others to answer her. A call from the garden attracted her attention. Joaquina was there, holding the book which they were currently reading. Venetia waved to her and indicated that she was coming down. They sat at one of the tables in the shade but did not immediately start to read. 'Some conversation first,' suggested Venetia. 'Where are Emilia and Anninha? Are they coming?' 'Not to-day, Venetia. They beg to be excused. They have driven to the village.' 'That is the second time this week. There is so little to buy in the village, why do they go there ?' 'I don't know, Venetia. Ah, here are Inez and Teresa with merienda.' 'In England, Joaquina, you will get afternoon tea.' 'Afternoon tea. Yes, I know. I do not like tea.' 'I'm afraid you will have to get used to it. And remember, Joaquina, that we say "don't". It is very formal if you always say "do not".'

'I will try to remember. I don't like tea, is that right? I don't like bacon and eggs for breakfast. I think I don't like to watch cricket or tennis or horse racing.' Venetia laughed. 'Well, you had better find something you do like or your visit will be a failure. If they take you to Wimbledon, you needn't worry about the tennis; and you will like to go to Ascot, because it isn't all horse-racing. It's having lunch in somebody's box there, and drinking champagne (but be careful with that), and walking on beautiful soft lawns to put on your bets, and dressing up and seeing everybody else dressed up.' 'Oh yes, I am sure I will really be very happy there,' said Joaquina, looking so full of apprehension that Venetia was sorry for her. They were drinking their coffee while they talked. 'On Wednesday,' said Joaquina, 'there is to be a dinner party. The Trastamara family is coming to dine, and Senor and Senora de Quevedo will come and a charming friend of Don Andres called Don Francisco Olivares, and Father Ignatio.' 'Talk to me about the Trastamara family,' suggested Venetia, not so much from curiosity about them as to give her pupil a theme for conversation. 'Senora de Trastamara is a friend of Dona Eulalia since years and years. Her husband is of great wealth.' (Venetia decided to make her speech more colloquial when she came to the end of what she was saying). 'Mama always says to us that they have greater wealth, but we are of nobler family and older family.' Joaquina looked at Venetia with wide, innocent eyes. 'There are many titles in our family, Venetia, although Don Andres does not have one.'

Venetia refrained from upsetting her strongly implanted ideas by telling her that she herself cared nothing about titles. 'There are two sons and a daughter. The first son is Gregorio. He has thirtythree years...' 'He is thirty-three years old,' suggested Venetia. 'Yes, and he has a wife and two little children, but they are staying longer in Rio de Janeiro. Then Ramon, who is thirty years old. I think perhaps the parents want to make a marriage for Ramon and Emilia; but perhaps I should not speak of it...' 'I will forget that you did,' said Venetia smiling. 'And the daughter?' 'Ah, Fernanda! She is very lovely. Everybody likes Fernanda. She is alegre, gozosa...' 'Bright? Gay?' 'Yes. And looks like a flower.' 'How so?' asked Venetia, intrigued. 'Oh, it is difficult. Fresh, you know, opening out...' Joaquina's English was obviously not sufficient to describe the charms of Fernanda de Trastamara. She gave up the attempt and gave her attention to the pastries. 'And what does one wear for such a dinner party?' asked Venetia. 'One's very best dinner dress?' 'Oh yes,' said Joaquina, 'and one's jewels.'

'Well, I'm a little short on jewels,' said Venetia, and thought even that an overstatement. 'De nada. You are so pretty, you don't need.' Venetia thought that, if it was going to be the kind of dinner party suggested by Joaquina's words, perhaps she would drive down to the coast the following day, and see if a special dress could be found in the boutiques there. This she did, leaving the castillo soon after breakfast in her room, going back over that tortuous road from the mountains to the sea, finding it very hot in the car, and happy to come at last into the town sufficiently well patronised by the wealthier migrants as to have several expensive and exclusive boutiques. In the first one, she found something so delightful that she knew she need look no farther; a simple dress of lime green gauze over lime green silk that looked like eternal spring. She bought a lime green velvet band for her throat, on which she could thread her gold locket; and when she walked into the narrow, tile-paved streets of the old town to lunch at one of the good little restaurants there, she was very pleased with her purchases. The journey back seemed less long and less of a strain with the sun now behind her; and when she reached the road leading to the village, she turned on to it on impulse, always fascinated by the typical old-Spanish quality of the place. She left her car by the inn, and began to walk the narrow, winding cobbled streets, admiring the white houses with their irregularly shaped patios brimming with flowers. She turned a corner and saw two people at some distance ahead of her: Anninha and a young man. Venetia stood stock still, astonished. What was Anninha doing here alone? And with a young man? A young man, moreover, who

at first glance did not look her own kind. He was not a workman and his casual dress might have misled Venetia; but she did not think he was a young man Don Andres would approve of, handsome as he seemed from this distance. Venetia turned back. Anninha could not be alone. Emilia or Joaquina must be somewhere about, or Jos had driven her into the village. Venetia hesitated, wondering what she should do, and decided that it was obviously her duty to seem to come upon them casually and find out just what was happening. She remembered that twice that week Emilia and Anninha had not come to the afternoon session of English but had driven to the village. Was this what they came for? Or was she jumping to hasty conclusions? It was possible that this was a young man the family had known for a long time and that there was nothing to disapprove of. At least, she could go and find out. So she turned the corner once more, with no hesitation this time, and made her way swingingly along the narrow street until the young man turned and saw her, and Anninha, following his action, turned too. And there was simply no doubt about it. Anninha was startled and alarmed and obviously knew that she was doing something she should not be doing. 'Why, Anninha, hallo,' said Venetia, smiling, and turned to smile at the young man too. He looked about eighteen and was very handsome indeed with his curling black hair and dazzling white teeth and bold black eyes. He gave her a polite enough 'Buenas tardes', but his eyes were challenging. It was Anninha who was scared and at a loss for words. 'You are not alone, Anninha?' Venetia asked.

'No, of course not, Venetia. Emilia is in the farmacia. I am to meet her at the inn.' 'Good. Shall we go back together, then?' Venetia glanced at the young man as if waiting for an introduction, but Anninha did not do it, and the young man would not. He spoke quickly in Spanish to Anninha, too fast for Venetia to grasp itas no doubt he intended; and with a bow to them both, turned away and vanished round a bend. Venetia and Anninha began to make their way back to the inn. Venetia said nothing, knowing that Anninha trembled several times on the brink of speaking to her. At last, as they came within sight of the inn and saw Emilia waiting at one of the outside tables, Anninha said hesitatingly: 'Venetia, please do not speak at home of seeing me in the village speaking to a young man.' 'Why not?' asked Venetia, assuming innocence. They would not like it,' Anninha admitted. 'Who are they?' 'Mama. And Don Andres.' 'They don't like this young man, Anninha?' Anninha flushed and had the grace to look ashamed. 'They don't know him, Venetia.' 'If they did know him, do you think they would approve of him ?'

There was a long silence. They were almost within earshot of Emilia when Anninha answered at last: 'No. They would not. But he is really so nice, Venetia, and so charming...' 'How do you know him, Anninha ?' 'He spoke to me one day when I was here with Emilia shopping. He lives in a nice house at the end of the village with his parents.' So he picked her up, thought Venetia, and there was perhaps no real harm in that, but it was not the sort of thing Don Andres would approve of for his young cousins. And Anninha had persuaded Emilia to drive her into the village to meet this young man. How many times? she wondered. She remembered that it was Anninha who said to Don Andres, after Toby's departure from the castillo: 'It is so dull here without any young men.' But she was certainly too young to go out looking for them herself. Her fifteenth birthday was due in a week or so, and her family still looked upon her as a child. They came up to Emilia, who suggested they should have coffee there. 'I think it is much nicer to go back to the castillo for it,' said Venetia. 'It will be beautiful by the pool. Will you drive back with me, Anninha, or with Emilia?' Anninha decided to drive with Emilia. Venetia guessed that they would discuss this development, that Anninha was really alarmed that Don Andres would hear of her escapade. Well, thought Venetia with relief, she goes back to school very shortly and that should take care of it. If there was one of the sisters who might need a watchful eye and a firm hand, she thought it was Anninha.

Emilia was not likely to stray from the path laid down for her: her ideas and opinions were copied faithfully from her mother. Joaquina was gentle and obedient. It was Anninha who fretted against restriction, who had been unsuccessfully pleading all through the holidays to be allowed to go and stay with school friends, who found the company of her sisters dull, who was always declaring her intention of travelling round the world when she was old enough. They had their coffee by the pool and later Venetia enjoyed a long, leisurely swim. She had long since discovered that only Anninha and Don Andres cared for swimming, and it was Anninha who came to join her now; and when they had swum and had dried themselves and put on their towelling coats, Anninha looked several times as if she would plead further with Venetia, and in the end decided not to. But her looks did the pleading for her, a mixture of guilt and ruefulness and imploring. Venetia had no intention of speaking to Don Andres at present, but she did mean to keep her eyes open as far as the youngest sister was concerned. Next day, there were several indications that this was to be a special day. In the lofty hall, Venetia found Senora de Quevedo arranging the flowers, surpassing even her usual beautiful arrangements. She always arranged the flowers for the whole establishment, which was no mean task at any time. She lived with Senor de Quevedo in a house within the castle walls and maintained a flower garden for the sole purpose of supplying the castle. She had no children and perhaps her flowers helped to fill this unbridgeable gap. In the afternoon, the hairdresser arrived and arranged the coiffure of the sisters before giving his attention to the senora. A message

was sent to Venetia that his services were available to her if she wished, but she was accustomed to dealing with her own long hair and refused with thanks. So it was no surprise to her to find that it was a formal dinner party indeed. She was fairly satisfied with herself when she went downstairs to the sala: the lime green dress and high-heeled gold sandals, the lime velvet band with the gold locket, the gold bracelet which had been a birthday present, and her corn-gold hair piled up in a sophisticated coiffure. There was so much conversation in the sala that her opening of the door went unheard. A large group of people in the centre of the room had obviously just finished their greetings to each other. The men seemed to be loosely grouped together, and the ladies separately grouped. The first impression Venetia received was of a scene in black and white. Five of the men wore white tuxedos, Senor de Quevedo black evening dress and Father Ignatio his robes. There was an impression that they were all tall, slim, proud-looking: all darkhaired and with the long face of the Spanish aristocrat. Venetia, seeing but unseen, thought that here were Spanish grandees! They were not, in fact, all tall and slim: Senor de Quevedo, for example, was the rounder type often found here; but that was Venetia's first impression. The two senoras, also, had chosen to be severe, the one in steelgrey silk with some wonderful diamonds, the other in black with outsize emeralds. Anninha and Joaquina were in white. But then the black and white scene was broken up; for Emilia was in a blue which did nothing for her sallow skin, and the only remaining

person in the party was wearing a dress of a soft glowing apricot colour that certainly did wonders for hers. This then must be the much-praised Fernanda de Trastamara. Venetia, on whom all this had registered within a few seconds, now received a stunning impression of Fernanda. She was taller than the sisters, her slim figure beautifully rounded. The black, glossy hair was abundant and beautifully dressed, the dark eyes, fringed by long, thick lashes, sparkled and shone. Her make-up was perfect, but Venetia thought she would be vivid without that. The dress was lovely and she was impeccably groomed in a country where so many women were impeccable. She was, in truth, very beautiful, and, as Joaquina had said, bright and gay. The sort of beauty that must discourage every woman in sight of her. Inevitably, someone turned and saw Venetia at the open door, whereupon she became the focus of attention of everybody in the room. Don Andres came forward to guide her into the room and introduce her to the people she did not know. And she found herself face to face with Senorita Fernanda de Trastamara. They smiled at each other. Frank curiosity was in the expression of both of them. She is a real beauty, was Venetia's thought. They began at once to talk to each other with a frankness and vitality that emphasized the lack of these things in the other girls, in a tangle of English and Spanish that had them laughing with pure enjoyment. As they turned towards the manservant who was offering them drinks on a tray, neither saw Don Andres watching them from across the room; neither of them was conscious of the extreme contrast they made, the one so dark and glowing, the other so golden and glowing.

In the Spanish manner, the conversation seemed to go on for hours before dinner was served. The manservant kept an eagle eye upon them all, refilling glasses, supplying small savouries. The Spanish was rapid and not always intelligible to Venetia, but she was happy to listen and try to understand, and to watch with wholehearted interest. The thing that struck her more than anything else was the apparent arrogance and pride of the men and the complete decorum of the women. Formality, courtesy and a good deal of charm. Venetia wondered where she had read that every Spaniard thought of himself as a grandee or a don: surely here was the real thing; and the most striking of all the men, Don Andres, an easy and accomplished host. And the most charming of the women without a shadow of doubt, Fernanda. As Venetia watched her, she thought that Fernanda had complete command of every feminine wile in the book: her smile, the way her eyes lit up when a man spoke to her, the way she used the fan which-was in such everyday use here. Seeing Venetia sitting alone for a moment, Fernanda crossed the room to sit beside her. 'Anninha tells me that you are teaching her to speak better English,' she began. 'All the sisters,' smiled Venetia. 'I think they presume upon a guest in their house.' 'Not at all, I am delighted to do it.' 'They are speaking so much better English that I think I should be allowed to come, too, and improve mine.'

'It doesn't need improving, senorita. It is charming and very good.' 'But my accent is not good. How long are you staying at the castillo, senorita ?' 'Until Joaquina goes to England.' 'Ah.' Was this, wondered Venetia, what she had come to find out? 'I hope you will come and see us, senorita, before you leave?' 'I should be delighted,' Venetia told her. 'It's so lovely to be back in Spain again. We enjoyed life very much in South America, but my mother and I were longing to come back. There is nowhere like Spain.' 'That's only natural, I suppose. For me, there is nowhere like England.' Don Andres crossed the room to their side, smiling down at them. 'So much beauty concentrated in so small a space,' he said with a bow. 'I was telling the senorita, Andres, how happy I am to be back in Spain; and she was saying that she cannot live without England.' 'Is that so?' he asked, giving Venetia an enquiring look from beneath dark eyebrows. 'Not quite,' she replied, refusing to allow Fernanda to get away with it. 'What I actually said was that there was nowhere like England.' 'Perhaps it comes to the same thing?' he asked.

'I don't think so, senor.' Their glances locked for a few moments before Venetia looked away, and she saw that Fernanda watched them with a slightly puzzled expression. They went in to dinner, and it was midnight before they got to the coffee stage, by which time Venetia had realised that plans were afoot between these two families. Joaquina had let fall that a match might be arranged between Ramon and Emilia, which might well be suitable, Venetia thought, since it seemed to her that Ramon was as dull as Emilia, and as conventional and conforming. But what interested her more was the fact that Fernanda's charm was certainly directed to Don Andres, and that the indulgent smiles of the two senoras seemed to be a benediction on the idea that Fernanda and Don Andres might be matched. Venetia did not think that anybody would arrange a match for him: he would certainly do whatever he wanted to do or planned for himself. But whatever the families could do to push it forward would certainly be done. She could detect nothing of his feeling from his demeanour, although he responded to Fernanda's beauty and her gaiety. She was radiant. Joaquina had said she was like a flower, and Venetia saw what she meant. Fernanda blossomed. She was quite something, Venetia thought. Surely Don Andres could go farther and fare worse. It was quite irrational that she should feel put out by this thought, as if she had been overshadowed in some way. Obviously such a match was as suitable as the other between Ramon and Emilia. Don Andres and Fernanda were of the same nationality and the same religion and the same kind of social circle; and Fernanda knew her exact place in regard to life generally, to married life and to a husband. Yes, of course, it was ideal; so why did Venetia still feel that it made her an outcast? Sheer feminine unreason, she decided.

After coffee, she excused herself and said good-night to the assembled company, thinking that they might all feel a little more comfortable without the foreign guest. Don Andres accompanied her to the door, and to her surprise, along the corridor to the marble staircase and up the stairs to the top. 'I'm sorry, senorita, that the conversation was in Spanish to-night and might seem to exclude you. I hope you didn't feel excluded?' 'Of course not, senor. It would be unreasonable to expect so many people to speak English for my benefit; and it was very good practice for me.' 'I will walk with you to your door,' he said, and proceeded to do so. Had he sensed that she felt shut out, wondered Venetia, and was trying to console her? He had lacked nothing of hospitality, although he might think so. 'I must compliment you on looking very beautiful tonight,' he said, and there was much less formality in his voice, and now she was sure he must be consoling her. 'Such a golden girl among so many dark Spaniards. I think you had a great success among my friends, senorita.' Among the men, perhaps, thought Venetia, but perhaps slightly less; success with Fernanda and her mother and Senora de los Reyes. They would probably be pleased when she went back to England. At her door, they paused. 'Buenas noches, Don Andres,' Venetia said, and gave him her hand. Instead of bowing perfunctorily over it, he held it closely in both of his for long seconds. She raised her eyes to his in surprise and they exchanged a long searching look, which seemed to

convey a great deal but in a language they were not sure they understood. Hesitation trembled on the air between them and something of desire. A delicate thread seemed to stretch between them, and then was broken by second thoughts and resolution. And he bent his head over her hand and kissed it with something more than the usual token respect. 'Buenas noches, Venetia,' he said, 'sleep well,' and released her hand to open her door for her, and waited while she went through. She heard it close quietly and sighed a long sigh as she walked to her dressing table. She looked at her reflection, at 'the golden girl', unfastening the velvet band with the gold locket, taking off the gold bracelet. Yes, she thought, even he had recognised the fact that she was the outsider here. The return of the Trastamara family caused a big step-up in the family's social life. There were frequent comings and goings. The two families lived twenty miles apart, which was nothing in their fast cars, and they were always meeting for the swimming parties at either house, for long luncheons that went far into the afternoon, dinners that extended past midnight, or for the bullfights. Venetia was always included in the invitations, but did not always accept, not wishing to intrude. Anninha also did not always go, since Don Andres considered her too young for certain occasions or certain people. On one occasion when she did not go with the family, Venetia drove herself to the village with her sketching pad. She had already sketched interesting features of the castle and now wanted to include parts of the village. She left her car at the inn since most of the ways were too narrow to drive a car, settled herself at a quiet corner and began to sketch. She had been there about twenty minutes when she heard a familiar voice, and glanced up to see two young people strolling together hand in hand, and to recognise Anninha and the young man with the curling black hair and the

dazzling white teeth. They saw her too, hesitated in some confusion, and then came on, undecided what to do. Venetia thought that Anninha had gone out with her mother and sisters. She smiled at the young couple welcomingly, and Anninha looked at' the sketch and commented on it, her voice and her pleading eyes betraying her uncertainty. 'I was just going to break off and have some coffee at the inn,' said Venetia. 'Why don't you join me?' 'I think Felix doesn't have time,' said Anninha in English. 'Yes, I have time,' he said in Spanish, smiling at Venetia, so that she could see why Anninha's young head had been turned by him. They all walked to the inn and drank a cup of coffee together, and Venetia decided that Felix was certainly a charmer, and might possibly be a very shrewd young man too. Anninha would be easy prey. But she gave no sign of disapproval then. She said: 'How did you come in, Anninha? Do you want to drive back with me ?' Anninha had ridden in on horseback. Of course, thought Venetia, the only way she could do it privately, and wondered how far this little affair had progressed; certain that it was innocent so far, but slightly perturbed about it. She would not leave until Anninha had left before her. 'We shall have time for some English conversation before lunch,' she told her. 'Meet me at the pool when you reach home.'

In due course, Anninha came to meet her at the pool-side and Venetia proceeded to find out what she could about the young man Felix and how often Anninha was meeting him. 'You know Don Andres would disapprove, Anninha, so why do you do it ?' 'Because Felix is my friend and I like him very much and he likes me, and I don't see why I should not meet him.' 'Then why not ask Don Andres' permission to bring him here and let him meet the family?' 'Of course I can't do that,' said Anninha sullenly. 'Why not?' 'Because he is a village person. He is not our kind. Don Andres would not give that permission.' Suddenly, Anninha stamped her foot on the paving and her eyes flashed. 'But he is just as good as we are,' she declared angrily. 'Anninha, my dear, you are too young to be meeting people your family disapproves of,' said Venetia. 'I am fifteen next week. Girls are grown up nowadays at fifteen.' 'No, they are not,' said Venetia firmly, 'although they may think they are. And Felix is a lot older than you.' 'He is nineteen,' said Anninha, 'and very sensible and very correct with me. And I will go on seeing him.' 'And if I tell Don Andres what I know?' asked Venetia.

'Oh, but you wouldn't do that, Venetia.' 'I think I should have to, Anninha. It would be wrong of me not to let him know. If anything should happen to you...' 'But what could happen?' cried Anninha. 'All we do is meet and talk, and walk through the village, and sometimes in the country.' Sometimes in the country, thought Venetia. That would damn the boy in Don Andres' eyes for a start. 'And don't you think, Anninha, that people in the village see you talking and walking hand in hand? and don't you know how news and gossip get around?' Anninha said nothing, looking undecided, yet obstinate at heart. 'If you tell me you won't meet this young man again, I won't tell Don Andres,' said Venetia. 'I have to go to school,' Anninha was sulky again, 'so I won't have the opportunity.' Thank goodness for that, thought Venetia, torn between what she thought she ought to do and her sympathy for Anninha. That evening, Venetia seemed to have the whole castillo to herself. The entire family had gone to the de Trastamara house, and the servants with relatives in the village had been given permission to visit them. The cook, butler and young manservant were in the house, but not visible; and she could see the light from the Quevedo house in the castle precincts, but they too were invisible. It was strange and rather eerie. Before dinner, she walked through that lofty, vaulted hall and could feel the weight of the centuries.

Looking from her room, she saw those ancient walls as the Moors had left them so long ago. She could almost feel the presence of a long line of Don Andres' ancestors, tall, dark men, the El Greco or Velasquez Spaniards, with all the aloofness and all the brooding intensity of the Spanish character. She could not face dinner alone in that lofty dining hall with Matias the butler at the serving table, and a manservant to hand her the dishes. She had her dinner on a tray, and afterwards, her restlessness drove her out into the garden. A strong, aromatic scent drifted towards her, lilies perhaps. She walked among the trees and shrubs, and sat for a while by the pool, listening to the cicadas tuning up for the night. She thought of the two families dining and the crescendo of conversation: of Ramon and Emilia, but chiefly of Fernanda and Don Andres. The beautiful Fernanda, having all the confidence in her own invincibility that so much beauty gave her. Thinking of Fernanda brought on an attack of inferiority complex; and the strangeness of her own presence here, in the dark and quiet garden, or in the ancient castle, struck her forcibly. She began to walk back to the house, and heard footsteps treading the path that she was taking. One of the servants perhaps, probably coming to lock the pavilion. She felt a slight apprehension, there in the darkness, but even as she drew aside to stand in the deep shadow of a tree so that whoever it was could pass her, she collided with the man and stepped back with a startled cry. But the man's hand gripped her arm firmly and Don Andres' voice said: 'Who is that? Is it you, Venetia ?' She had thought him away with the others. Relief swept through her and she laughed shakily. 'Did I frighten you ?' he asked. 'Venetia?'

There was a questioning note in the way he said her name, and his hand was drawing her towards him. Next moment she was folded in his arms, and they stood together in the scented darkness in a content that seemed to drain away all tension, and leave only a perfect well-being. Venetia did not know how long they stood together. She felt the sigh that came from deep inside him. He said softly: 'I shall have no peace as long as you stay with us.' She did not want these moments to end, but at last she replied: 'Then I had better go.' He gathered her even closer and rested his cheek on her hair. 'I suspect that I shall have no peace when you are gone.' He released her, but kept her hands in his in a warm clasp. In the intimacy born of those moments in his arms and the summer darkness, she said: 'Poor Don Andres. You said before that I was a disturber of the peace.' And he could tell by her voice that she was smiling. 'And so you are, Venetia.' She noticed that he only called her Venetia when they were alone. 'So you are.' He turned to walk back with her to the main door of the hall. 'I thought you were out with your family,' Venetia said. 'I had to come back early.' But he did not say why. 'Were you not lonely, here by yourself?'

'A little,' she admitted. 'It was strange. I was thinking of that long, long line of ancestors...' 'Yes. It is that long line of ancestors that imposes restrictions on me perhaps, that sets out rules of conduct. Tradition: which is, of course, in our blood...' He paused at the corner of the house and turned to her suddenly, swiftly. 'Oh, Venetia,' he said, and pulled her back into his arms with an unexpectedness and a fierceness that astonished her, holding her tightly, his cheek on hers, for immeasurable moments; and then, as if reason and common sense had returned to him again, releasing the strength of that embrace, but kissing her cheek and then slowly releasing her altogether. There were a few moments of complete stillness between them, and then he began to drive one fist into the palm of his other hand, several times, angered at himself. 'God, what is the matter with me?' he said in a deep, almost unrecognisable voice. 'Am I going to spend the rest of your time here apologising to you? Will there have to be another letter on your breakfast tray to-morrow?' 'Don Andres, you don't have to apologise.' Venetia's voice was soft and low. 'I'm not going to hold it against you because you are attracted to me sometimes. I will not misunderstand.' 'You are too kind,' he said stiffly, 'but I have no right to treat you in that way. Yes, of course, there is an attraction. You are beautiful and you are friendlyand I must remember that you will soon go away. I must also remember that it would never do.' He walked on and she kept pace with him. They walked into the hall and across it to its farther end. 'You must be tired,' he said, more formal and aloof than ever because he was angry with himself for the lapse. 'I am going into

my study. Go to bed, Venetia. And please try to forget about what happened.' "No, I won't forget,' said Venetia. 'I have done nothing I want to forget. I am not hampered by a long line of forbidding ancestors. Good-night, Senor Arevalo.' She made no effort to forget. She lay in her bed remembering. Just as there was something about him that she found vastly attractive, an aura made up of his aloof courtesy, the dark remoteness, the aristocrat in a feudal world; so she knew that there were moments when he found her irresistible. But physical attraction could be one of the most misleading things in the world: swept together in a passion of anger, or coming together in a moment of desire. These moments must not be given more than their real value, for as he himself had said, 'it would never do'. He had meant that a relationship between them would never do, however sweet those moments in each other's arms. She gave herself up for a while to the memory of those moments those misleading momentsbefore she looked at the reasons why it would never do; but drowsiness overcame her before she had got far, and she fell into a gentle, peaceful sleep from which she did not rouse until Pascuala arrived in the morning with her breakfast tray. And there was another letter on it, in the stiff white envelope with the interlaced red monogram. Immediately intrigued, Venetia opened it at once, but it was not an apology this time. It was a formal invitation to join him in his study for coffee at eleventhirty. When she did so, she looked cool and elegant in a dress of lemon yellow, with her hair up on her head, emphasizing the lovely curve

of the slender neck. He came at once from behind the desk to meet her, seated her in a corner of one of the chesterfields and moved the coffee tray closer to her. 'Will you, senorita?' he asked, and Venetia began to pour the coffee. He seated himself opposite. 'I asked you to come here this morning, senorita, because I felt that I should make my position clear to you, that I owed that much to you.' 'You owe me nothing, senor.' Venetia handed him his cup, smiling at him, and settled back in the chesterfield with her own. 'I would not like you to think that I pester all my feminine guests with unwelcome attentions.' 'I should hope not,' said Venetia. 'We will let the "unwelcome" pass for the moment. But I think Spanish ladies might read far more into such attentions than I did.' 'Because they are a normal pattern of behaviour between men and women in England?' 'Shall we say they're not unusual ? And she would be a foolish girl who began to think of marriage because of them.' 'There lies the difference,' said Don Andres. 'If you are worried that I am reading too much into your soregrettable actions, Don Andres,' (he looked quickly up at her, suspecting that she was teasing, and finding it confirmed by the sparkle in her eyes), "be reassured. As you said yourself last night, it would never do.' 'That, Venetia, was absolutely no reflection on your charming self.

'Why do you think it would never do?' he asked. 'I am curious, and interested in the way you think.' 'We are of different nationalities. Not insurmountable, of course. We are of different religionsmuch more difficult. We think differently in a thousand ways, and that is important. I am all for freedom of thought and action, but you, senor, want people to run on tramlines.' She saw the quick frown and the pulling together of the dark brows. 'Forgive me, but it's trueand I have a passionate regard for the truth...' 'And I do not?' he asked fiercely. 'I didn't say that, Don Andres, nor imply it I could go on, senor, but I think that is enough. Perhaps you should tell me why you said that last night.' 'You have said it for me, Venetia. I have many commitments already and I feel that an Englishwoman, especially one of your temperament, Venetia, would not fit into them.' For a moment, Venetia wondered wildly what they were talking about: they seemed to have plunged into deeper waters than she had expected. 'Why is my temperament so difficult, Don Andres?' 'I think you would question everything a man chose to do.' 'From interest only, not from criticism.' 'And you would impose your will, something that Spanish women do not do.'

'I might express an opinion. That is different from imposing my will. And do you really think that Spanish women don't?' 'They know where to stop, where to draw a line, as you would say.' 'Where to give in gracefully,' said Venetia, and she could not keep a slight sardonic tone from her voice. 'Where to bow to man's domination.' 'Yes.' He looked at her from coolly observant dark eyes. 'And you, senorita, do not believe in man's domination.' 'I do not,' she said. 'Domination. It's a word I don't care for much, domination. It makes a dictatorship of marriage.' 'You will be saying next,' he said drily, 'that it makes women into second class citizen's. Isn't that the cry nowadays of the women of your country and the United States ? Do you think the women here are second-class citizens?' 'Do you want me to be truthful? Or tactful?' 'Let us by all means have the truth for which you have so passionate a regard.' She decided to ignore the gibe which was now in his voice. 'Then yes, in a way, I do. They are confided to the house and the children and the housekeeping and cooking. And to little social occasions where they gossip to each other; and to dressing up for their men and grooming immaculately for them. And to waiting for a pat of approval, if the men happen to notice them.' 'You are a foolish girl,' he said. 'I would have given you credit for more sense and perception. You have looked on the surface of things and haven't troubled to go deeper. What you haven't

understood is that our women are happy. Happy! They have naturally what your women are struggling for. They have deep content and happiness because they are doing the natural thing in their rightful place. It is said in Spain that a woman looks at a man with marriage and eight children in her eyes! And their men adore them.' 'And ignore them,' said Venetia. He shook his head indulgently at her. 'And if I'm foolish,' she said, 'you are condescending.' She had risen to her feet and was walking about the room, unable to sit still a moment longer, restless, resentful of his power to stir her up. He watched her with a detached but observant interest. 'What I want,' she said, after a while, 'is a partnership, Everything free and open between a man and me. I want to be part of all he does, and for him to be a part of me: to know that, when he has something to discuss, he thinks of me first. To grow closer together, not only in love but in mutual interests and activities. To bring up our children together, not for one partner only to do it.' 'You sound like a boring newspaper article,' he told her. 'You see, you take refuge in contempt, senor; she said angrily. She turned at his desk and walked back towards him. 'You see the impossibility of reconciling our views. I would not want to be a pampered plaything, dressed up and decorated with jewels, and picked up and put down whenever a man feels like it.' He rose to his feet, standing near her. She was always a little surprised by his tallness. She had to look up to him.

'A pampered plaything! What silly words you use, Venetia. Has anybody ever pampered you? Have you any idea at all what it's like to be pampered?' He put out a hand and rested it gently on her shoulder. 'Have you any idea at all what it's like to give yourself up to a person, completely and without reserve, not bothering about who is dominating whom ?' He was very close now, his dark eyes looking deep into hers. His arms went round her gently, gently, drawing her in close. He held her tenderly until her tumultuous feelings simmered down and disappeared, one strong hand stroking her shoulder and arm, until, when she was quiescent and filled with content, it turned her face up towards his. He kissed her forehead and closed her eyes with kisses, and then kissed her mouth, slowly and closely. And when their kiss ended, he held her face gently against his shoulder and swayed slightly with her in his arms as if he were rocking her. At last, she sighed a deep sigh. That was nice, Venetia,' he said softly. 'Bliss,' she agreed, her eyes still closed. 'Happy, Venetia?' 'Mmmmm,' she agreed. There was a short pause. Then he said: 'You see how pleasant it is to be pampered, senorita.' For a moment or two, she was completely immobile in his arms, then he felt her slowly stiffening. Then, with startling suddenness, she wrenched herself from his arms and stood facing him with her eyes blazing.

'Oh,' she gasped. 'You are a devil! It was a test case!' He smiled at her, but his eyes were still watchful. 'Yes, it was a test case, Venetia. I think you are not so different from your Spanish sisters.' She would have liked to slap his face, but she knew that would not get her anywhere. She strove for command of herself, and it was difficult to come by, for she was still under the spell of his gentle embrace and close kisses, and they were hard to reconcile with the look of calm superiority on his features now. At last, her breathing quietened and her anger died. 'And do you think that that proves anything?' she asked, managing to keep her voice steady and cool. 'I think what we have proved this morning is what we only assumed before. That it would never do. That life would be full of differences.' She had walked to the door, but reaching it, turned and fired her parting shot. 'At least,' she said, 'it would never be dull.' The expression on his face changed, but Venetia waited no longer. She opened the door, went through and closed it gently behind her.

CHAPTER VI NEXT morning, Venetia was awake early, took her bath before her breakfast tray arrived, and was dressed and ready for the day when Inez came with it. Venetia put it on the deep windowsill and pulled her chair up to it so that she could look out at the garden and the pool. She saw Don Andres return from his morning ride, but it did not need this picture of perfect horsemanship to bring him into her mind, for she could not keep him out of it. Yesterday's scene recurred to her constantly. She had not seen him since then, for she had been invited out to lunch with the three sisters and Don Andres went out to dinner. It would be stupid to deny that some sort of attraction drew them together, but it would also be stupid to infer too much from it. They were not lovers, nor could they be said to be enemies, although often they said things that made each other angry. Even yesterday, it had been a battle of wits: 'and God knows,' Venetia thought, 'that that isn't the relationship a Spaniard wants with his woman.' That almost implied a lack of feminine charm in herself, and she did not like that idea. He had said that he had many commitments. That statement now recurred to her clearly: commitments to his family and the vast number of people who worked for him on the estate, the castle and estate to maintain. Commitments also to Fernanda de Trastamara? Venetia had to remind herself how short a time she had known this family. She knew nothing of their old friendships, their life before she arrived, their personal intimacies. It might well be that certain things were understood between these two Spanish families of which Venetia knew nothing. She was a bird of passage, here

today and gone to-morrow. She must remember that she had no fundamental importance for them. When she returned to England they might remember her for a time, perhaps even with pleasure, and then forget about her. This was an oddly depressing idea. A movement from the courtyard caught her eye, and she turned her head to see Anninha riding out under the high archway. Alone. Venetia waited to see if anybody would follow her from that part of the courtyard which she could not see from her window, but nobody followed. She watched Anninha taking her horse carefully down that first steep, stony part of the road, and then she disappeared from sight. That she should be alone was forbidden. Ever since Emilia, riding alone, had been thrown and dislocated her shoulder years ago, Don Andres had made it a rule that at least two of the sisters rode together, or a groom accompanied a solitary rider. Venetia, finishing her breakfast, watched the point of the road, much lower down, where Anninha should emerge into sight again; and at last she saw her, and waited to see which direction she would take. She kept to the road for a time, a small figure now from the height of the castle, and then she bore off through an olive grove and was once more lost to sight. When Venetia saw her again, smaller still, she had no doubt that Anninha was making for the village. But not by the usual route. It appeared that she was going behind the village, where the hillside was too steep for building and too steep for walking: it was almost a mountain climb to get into the village that way. Venetia's thoughts were now centred on Anninha. The silly girl! She had no doubt that Anninha had an assignation with the bold young Felix, and she was torn between various courses of action.

Obviously, she could not let Anninha run into danger, unchecked. She did not want to go to Don Andres, and appear to be betraying the girl. She could speak to Anninha again; but she was not even sure yet that Anninha had an assignation. Yet if she followed her it would seem like spying^ It was a difficult situation. Suddenly she made up her mind. She picked up her bag, in which was her car key, and the floppy straw hat she had bought in the village, and made her way to the spot in the courtyard where her car was parked. She saw the groom busy with the horses. She waved to Senora de Quevedo, already busy in her flower garden; and then she was in the car, reversing to a spot where she could make her way through the archway, and was driving down the steep hairpin bends. She knew that in the car she would reach the village before Anninha, but as yet had no idea what she would do when she got there. It was in the lap of the gods. It might be a wasted journey, but at least she would have tried to do something. Very little was happening as yet in the somnolent place. One or two sleepy-looking men rode their mules down the steep streets, legs dangling and almost touching the roadway. A few women were watering the colourful profusion of flowers in the wall pots and on the patios. They all looked at Venetia with curiosity, most of them gave her buenos dias. Only where building was going on was there the occasional clank of tools or a snatch of Moorish song. She walked the narrow streets, turning and winding, crossed the church square, small, dusty and uninhabited; but in the hushed quiet of the place there was no sign of Anninha nor of the dashing Felix. She came to the end of the village, the last straggling white houses, and found a stony place to stand where she could look down the

steepness of the hill. And at once she saw him, the intrepid Felix, leaping and bounding down that perilous slope with a sure-footed disregard of danger. Venetia looked farther, unable to see a sign of Anninha yet, but sure that she must be waiting for Felix at the bottom. She withdrew into the shadow of a wall, watching and waiting, and when Felix's helter-skelter descent came to a stop, a small figure emerged from the shade of a clump of trees to meet him, only distinguishable as Anninha from this distance by her riding clothes. They kissed briefly and turned, with joined hands, to walk through a broad field from which the oats had already been cut and taken away. Venetia sighed and turned back. She could not go after them, that was certain. Even if she had wanted to, there was no roadway down there. She retraced her steps through the village and drove back to the castillo. Joaquina and Emilia came to the poolside garden for their English conversation, and the maids appeared, like clockwork, with their refreshments. 'Where is Anninha ?' asked Venetia. They didn't know. She was getting very moody and very sulky, they said, always hiding herself off in some corner where she could not be found. She did not want to go back to school tomorrow, but she might as well bow to the inevitable. Anninha appeared at lunch and Venetia wondered that her family did not notice her suppressed excitement, the sparkle in her eyes, the aura that surrounded her. No moods and sulks at the moment. It was almost a transfiguration. After the meal, Venetia said to her:

'I would like to talk to you, Anninha, if you will spare me a few moments.' 'I can't,' said Anninha warily. 'It is Mama's orders that I rest in my room.' 'I won't keep you long. Shall we go into the garden?' 'I'm sorry, Venetia, I have to do my packing for school to-morrow.' 'Anninha.' Venetia's voice was firm. 'You know very well that Pascuala or Teresa will do your packing for you. Now. Will you speak to me, or would you prefer to speak to Don Andres?' Anninha followed Venetia in silence to a garden seat. 'Where were you this morning, Anninha?' That, Venetia, is nothing to do with you.' 'Anninha, you know I am your friend.' 'Of course,' said Anninha, airily. 'And the last thing I want to do is get you into trouble with your family. But you know they would not approve of this secretive friendship with Felix and that they would immediately end it.' 'It is ended,' said Anninha defiantly. 'But you met him this morning, Anninha.' 'How do you know that?' 'I saw you together when I was in the village.'

'You followed me,' Anninha accused her. 'You spied upon me. And you say you are my friend!' 'I want to save you from trouble, perhaps even danger.' Anninha looked at Venetia with hostility. 'Why do you think Felix is dangerous ? He is always correct, he would do nothing bad to me.... I had to say goodbye to him because I'm going back to that horrid school to-morrow. I couldn't go without saying goodbye.' Venetia paused. If it was really goodbye, then all might be well. Anninha at the moment considered herself grown-up, thought she was too old for school now, old enough to be in love. 'If it was only goodbye, Anninha.. 'Of course it was goodbye!' said Anninha passionately. 'I have to go away and perhaps he will find somebody else to love.' To love! thought Venetia. Had it got that far? It was a good thing the girl was going away, and perhaps she too would find other things to occupy and absorb her. It was certainly to be hoped the young man would. Venetia smiled gently at Anninha. 'You know, darling, I really feel my duty is to let your family know about it. Don Andres or your mother...' 'Oh no,' cried Anninha, horrified. 'But if you promise me it is ended, I won't.'

'I promise you, Venetia, I promise you.' 'All right then, but do be a sensible girl, Anninha, and keep your promise.' The following morning, before Venetia had left her room, Anninha came to say goodbye to her. She was already dressed for school in a navy blue dress with long sleeves and high neck and a stiff white Eton collar. Good lord, thought Venetia, that would have been out of date in an English school even fifty years ago. No wonder she hated it and the archaic attitude it represented! Venetia could not imagine one of the girls in her own form submitting to such an indignity. It made her more than usually sympathetic in her goodbyes. Fernanda appeared at lunch-time as if to make up for Anninha's empty place, beautiful in a white dress and with a good deal of gold about her, and in the high heels rarely forsaken by Spanish women. And she and Don Andres disappeared together afterwards in his long, comfortable car, leaving Venetia slightly disconsolate. She could not say that Fernanda had a proprietorial attitude towards him. It was more that she was unfailingly sure of her welcome, came back to a place where she was at home, to a person with whom she had complete understanding. She was consistently charming to Venetia. Her friendliness seemed perfectly sincere, and Venetia thought it showed the extent of her utter self-confidence. Had she seen anything at all to fear in Venetia's presence in the castillo, her attitude might have changed. Venetia began to think of going home. She felt her visit had lasted long enough. Although the whole family was unfailing in its hospitality, she had a feeling she was outstaying her welcome. The Senora de los Reyes had never given Venetia much attention, but

was now wrapped up in the Trastamara family and afforded her even less. Anninha was at school, Emilia became less interested in English as she became more interested in Ramon. Don Andres seemed to avoid her: perhaps even he wished she were gone, now that Fernanda was with him so much. It was then that the letters came from Lady d'Elboux with the news that John had been thrown during a point-to-point race, had broken his leg and was in hospital in a complexity of wires and pulleys, and that it might be better if Joaquina's visit was postponed until he was home again, when he would undoubtedly be out of action for some time and more than ever delighted to have her company. Joaquina spent most of the day in tears. She had been apprehensive about the visit, but longing to see John, and this was a great disappointment. Venetia decided that it might now be many weeks before Joaquina left Spain, and that she could not stay at the castle so long. Over coffee at the poolside, she began to prepare Joaquina for her departure. 'Oh, please don't go, Venetia,' Joaquina implored. 'It will be so dull without you.' 'Joaquina, there are always people at the castillo now.' 'But they don't come to see me. Emilia thinks of nothing but Ramon, and Mama of nothing but Senora de Trastamara. I should miss you so much, Venetia.' 'But when you come to England, Joaquina, I will be able to see you there.' 'And I shall lose my English. I know I will, and I was getting on so well. Please don't go.'

But Venetia said she must. She would stay a few more days, until Anninha returned for the weekend, and then she would start her long drive back through Spain. 'You can speak English with Emilia, Joaquina.' 'Emilia doesn't care about it now.' 'Then with Anninha at weekends. She cares about it.' 'It won't be the same,' mourned Joaquina. Emilia had not come that morning for the English session, but she was present next day, and the three young women presented a discreet and studious appearance when Don Andres came striding through the garden towards them with a brow like thunder. That he was containing his anger with difficulty was immediately apparent to Venetia. He came to a stop at their table, and Joaquina and Emilia, slightly apprehensive, gave him a quiet 'Buenos dias'. 'Senoritas!' he said, and his voice was as thunderous as his darkened brow. The sisters were astonished at this formal mode of address. Pascuala and Inez appeared to take away the trays and he dismissed them with an arrogant flick of the hand that sent them scurrying back to their quarters. 'Your mother,' he said, his glance going from one sister to the other, 'has come to me with a story she had from Senora de Quevedo, concerning Anninha.' They waited, alarmed now, and Venetia saw that there was a flicker of nervousness in Emilia's eyes.

'She has, for some time, been secretly meeting a young man from the village...' 'Oh no,' protested Joaquina, shocked. 'What do you know about it, Joaquina?' he asked her. 'Nothing, Don Andres. Nothing at all. It surely cannot be true.' Venetia thought that nobody in his right mind could doubt Joaquina's innocence; and apparently Don Andres was in his right mind even if it was a very angry one, for he transferred his attention to Emilia. Emilia had had a moment or two of respite. 'Emilia?' he thundered. 'I know nothing either, Don Andres,' she said at once. 'You have heard nothing?' 'No. Only Anninha was sulking about school and always going off by herself.' Don Andres looked at her for long seconds and she lowered her eyes to the table, unable to meet that piercing, probing look. 'Senorita,' he said, addressing Venetia, 'had you any idea that such a thing was happening?' She looked back into his eyes, knowing that Emilia had lied, knowing equally well that she could not lie about it. 'I knew a little,' she admitted. 'What!' She had not thought it possible for his face to be darker and angrier, but now it was. 'You sit there and tell me that you

knew about a clandestine affair between a young man and a girl of fifteen, and did nothing about it?' He turned away from the table. 'Come into my study,' he ordered. He went ahead, not waiting for her, and she rose to her feet slowly, not wanting to meet the eyes of Joaquina, which would be sympathetic; or Emilia, which would be anxious and perhaps ashamed. She went at a slower pace to Don Andres' study and found him standing at the desk, looking out of the wide window, tapping his desk with a ruler impatiently. 'Sit down,' he said tersely, 'and justify your actions if it is possible to do so.' 'I prefer to stand,' Venetia said. 'And please don't speak to me as if I were a servant.' 'I speak to you as if you were a person lacking all judgment and common sense: which it seems to me you are.' 'Wouldn't it be wiser to know the facts of the case before you condemn me?' she asked coldly. The facts of the case,' he said angrily, 'as they have been put before me, are apparently these. For some time now, people in the village have seen Anna walking in the company of a young fellow called Felix Perez. They walk hand in hand through the streets, they lurk in corners to converse with each other. It is not known what else they do. That all this should be common knowledge in the village, and the subject of gossip, is something I can hardly bear to think of. And that you should have known of it without coming to tell me is something I cannot forgive.' 'I told you in the garden that I knew a little. I stumbled upon it by accident, and I spoke to Anninha about it.'

'It was not enough to speak to Anninha. You should have come to me. I am the head of the family. I think you have shown great irresponsibility.' Venetia looked at him with quick resentment, and then she saw that he was not only angry about all this but perturbed and anxious. She tried to justify herself. 'I don't think I have been irresponsible, senor. I thought about it a good deal, I told Anninha she was being foolish and how much you would disapprove; and the only reason I didn't come to you was that she promised not to see him again.' He received this scornfully. 'What do you think her promises are worth just now? She has not only made a spectacle of herself but she has cast a shadow on her whole family by her behaviour in the village. I can assure you the villagers think no better of her for lowering herself in this way, for believe me, senorita, they do think she is lowering herself. Most of them work for me. The young man's father works for me. He has a good position in my vineyard, and it was because he was anxious about this stupid affair that, when he heard of it, he spoke to Senor de Quevedo, who thought it expedient to inform his wife so that she could speak to Anna's mother. Who can possibly know what has happened between them ?' 'I'm sure that the whole thing is innocent so far,' said Venetia quickly. 'How can you be sure?' He looked closely at her. 'How much are you concerned in all this? How much are you in Anna's confidence?'

'I'm only concerned in it because I tried to stop it. I am not in Anninha's confidence. If you will listen to me for a few moments without erupting, I will explain to you what I know and how I came to know it.' 'Very well.' He stood immobile and watchful, waiting for her to speak, and Venetia told him factually and quietly how she had first seen them talking in one of the narrow streets, when the young man had quickly disappeared; how she had met them again later and taken coffee with them so that she could see for herself what this young man was like; and how, when Anninha rode towards the village, she had followed in her car. 'She met Mm that time to say goodbye to him. She would only promise not to see him again if I said I would not come to you.' 'You should have come to me the moment you saw them together. Every meeting between them was a potential danger. She thinks she is in love with him, this child of fifteen?' 'I suppose so,' admitted Venetia. 'And he pretends to be in love with her. I know the boy, for he's scarcely more than that. But old enough and bold enough and handsome enough to turn her head.' He struck the desk several times with his fist. 'How do we know that he has not already seduced her?' 'I feel sure that hasn't happened,' Venetia said. She looked at him for a while in silence. Then she asked softly: 'Are you more concerned about your family honour, Senor de Arevalo, or about Anninha?' He turned back to her angrily.

'I suppose you care nothing about family honour?' he said contemptuously. "I suppose you even condone what she has done?' 'Oh, you're impossible,' snapped Venetia. 'Can't we discuss this sensibly? You are speaking out of anger and you accuse me without having any cause for it. What has Anninha done? Simply been a little foolish. She knows it herself at heart, and I think the young man is irresponsible enough to encourage her. But in my opinion, for what it's worth, and I know you don't think that's very much, there has been no seduction.' 'Perhaps you will produce reasons to support this comfortable assertion ?' 'I think the chief reason is the whole climate of thought and upbringing here. He knows that would put him beyond the pale, Anninha would know she was committing a mortal sin; and they would both know, unconsciously, what a tornado, what a train of trouble, they would cause. And I think I know that Anninha is nowhere near that stage...' 'And you know so much about the adolescent girl,' he put in. 'Yes, I do. I spend my working hours with them. And if you are going to be sarcastic, we can't discuss it,' said Venetia, and turned to go. 'And if you are so lacking in consideration and duty to the family which has befriended you and given you hospitality, I do not see how you can reasonably stay here.' 'I had already decided to leave on Friday.' Venetia was angry now in her turn. 'I have told Joaquina so, and would have told you shortly. But now I will leave today. I will pack at once. But don't imagine, senor, that anything I have done has influenced Anninha.

I have been told repeatedly ever since I came here that Anninha was the naughty one, the one that gets into scrapes, the one that rebels. Perhaps her mother should watch her more closely, even try to understand her. It isn't for me to do that. I'm not her governess or chaperone, although I have tried to make her see sense. Is it the duty of a guest in your house to watch over your young cousins?' 'It was certainly your duty to let me know what you had discovered.' His voice was cold and detached. 'And you think I have failed in that. I don't. So once more bur views are irreconcilable. You should be very relieved at my departure. Goodbye, senor.' 'You will be at luncheon ?' 'No. The cook will give me something to take with me. As soon as I have packed I will make for my next parador. Thank you for such generous hospitality during these past weeks.' 'De nada. It is nothing.' 'Goodbye, senor.' 'Adios, senorita.' Venetia walked out of the study and directly upstairs to her room. She rang for Pascuala and asked for a packed luncheon. She threw her possessions into her suitcases, packing with a lack of care unusual in her. She asked to see Senora de los Reyes and was received in that luxurious boudoir. Something had arisen, Venetia explained. that meant she must leave immediately. The senora was all graciousness. It had been charming to know Venetia, the senoritas

would miss her, if she came to Spain again, she must visit them. But Venetia thought she was not sorry to see her go. She returned to her room and rang for the maids to carry down her bags, knowing that she would not be expected to take them down herself. She made sure that she had left nothing behind and looked round the room she had become so attached to, for the last time. She looked out of the window at the garden and the quiet sunlit pool, and beyond the walls to the great spread of countryside and mountain beyond; and unaccountably tears stung her eye's and threatened to fall. She was sad to be leaving and specially distressed to be leaving under a cloud. She had been happy here. Joaquina and Emilia were in their rooms. She said goodbye to them, left them her address, promised to see Joaquina when she came to England. No doubt, they both thought she was leaving because Don Andres was angry with her. She went down the marble staircase for the last time, but did not go to the study. She had said her goodbye to the senor. As she went through the baronial hall with its lofty roof and Senora de Quevedo's beautiful arrangements of flowers, Matias came to see her to her car. She pressed on him the substantial tip she thought was due to him, although he was reluctant to accept it. He said in Spanish : 'We look forward, senorita, to your gracious presence in our castle once again.' As he said this, Don Andres came into the hall from the corridor and approached them. 'Thank you, Matias,' he said. 'I will see the senorita to her car.' Matias retired at once, obviously pleased that a member of the household had remembered what was due to courtesy. Don Andres said: 'Have you enough money for the rest of your journey, senorita ?'

'Thank you, yes,' said Venetia formally. 'I must confess I don't like the idea of your driving the length of Spain alone.' Venetia said nothing. Since there was nothing to be done about it, why bring that up now? 'What is your route, senorita?' 'Madrid, by way of Jaen and Manzanares. From Madrid, I shall go out to places like Avila and Toledo, then straight up by Burgos to Bilbao.' 'I hope your car will not break down again. I would have liked Mateo to give it an overhaul before your departure.' 'He said it would take me through Spain. I will put my faith in him.' There was a brief pause. For the first time, Venetia saw in Don Andres' face a suggestion of embarrassment. 'I have no right to ask you this, senorita, but...' 'But?' she prompted. 'Would youfor my peace of mindrefrain from giving lifts to strangers?' Immediately, the memory of the feast day in that primitive little town recurred to her, and she knew that he was thinking of it too, and his rescue of her from the importunate embraces of a young man whose name she had almost forgotten.

'I don't think I shall give lifts to strangers,' she said. 'I would like to ask you one more thing. Will you telephone me each evening to let me know where you are and how you are? Otherwise, I shall worry about you.' 'Certainly,' said Venetia, 'if that will give you relief.' 'Thank you. Round about eight each evening? Then I shall wait for your calls.' He opened the main door for her and they walked to where her car was waiting. The maids had left the cases at one side, and now he helped her to load them into the boot. Pascuala came running with a hamper, shook Venetia's hand once more, said goodbye again and retired. 'Then everything is ready,' said Don Andres. 'Yes, I'll be off. Thank you once more for these wonderful weeks in your lovely castillo.' She gave him her hand and he held it, and did not let it go. Silence stretched between them, a silence that each waited for the other to break. There was something forlorn in that silence, something of regret. Was it regret, Venetia wondered, for the perversity of their relationship with each otherregret that so little had emerged from it ? She raised her clear grey-green eyes to his dark ones, and found them no more readable to-day than they had ever been. Perhaps he too would be secretly relieved when she had gone. These two Spanish familiesa mutual admiration society, Venetia thought them could close their ranks again, free of the stranger. And Don Andres would be free of the disturber of his peace. She withdrew her hand.

'Adios, senor.' 'Adios, Venetia,' he said, and opened the car door for her. So she drove out through that high archway for the last time. In her mirror, she saw that he followed her to the archway and watched until the car turned the first of the hairpin bends. A flatness and a faint sorrowfulness immediately descended upon Venetia, and would not be shaken off for the rest of the day. She did not get far that day. She had a good deal of mountain road to negotiate before she reached the main road, and she spent some time over her solitary lunch by the roadside. Nobody to-day to come and intrude upon it, nobody to ask her for a lift. She drove on and stopped fairly early for the evening. She would make it a rule to finish her day's journey before dark. At eight o'clock she telephoned the castillo, and there was the usual delay in getting through; but at last she heard Don Andres' voice. 'All went well ?' he asked her. 'Yes, indeed. I am in another castle in Spain. At Jaen, in the parador.' 'Ah yes, I know it.' 'It reminds me of yours, but this is not so big. A castle on top of a hill with massive walls. I think to-morrow I might go to Toledo before going on to Madrid.' 'And you will telephone me from there?' 'If you wish.'

'I do wish, senorita. I hope you will enjoy your trip.' 'Thank you. Adios, senor.' Very short and very businesslike, she thought. He felt responsible for her safety as he did for the safety of his cousin's daughters. Certainly he had a conscience: about his workpeople, his household staff, his family. Even about the stranger within the gates. Perhaps he would be greatly relieved when the three sisters were all suitably married off. Was it possible that his own marriage was deferred because of them ? Venetia did not think so. The family was so strong in Spain, the ties so binding, that Fernanda might easily move into the castillo as its chatelaine, absorbing them all. And the castillo was certainly large enough for Don Andres and Fernanda to have a completely separate part of the establishment if they wished. The following evening, she telephoned from Toledo and had to leave a message because he could not be found, and was disproportionately disappointed. The next evening, still in Toledo, she spoke to him for some time. Yes, she had spent the whole day in Toledo and what a wonderful city it was! Yes, she had seen the marvellous church of San Juan de los Reyes'such beautiful cloisters'and the Cathedral; and had driven up to the parador for an excellent lunch, and had seen the Puerta del Sol and been into the lovely Moorish-feeling Santa Maria la Blanca. 'I'm absolutely exhausted,' she told him, 'but enchanted too.' 'Anninha was brought home for the weekend,' he told her, 'and was desolated to find you gone. She sends you her love.' 'Have you spoken to her, senor?' 'I have.'

'And how is she?' "Very subdued. But that is good for her.' 'Don Andres, I hope she doesn't think that it was I who told you of that affair.' 'She knows the facts, senorita. And from now on, she will be watched. What do you do to-morrow?' 'Leave for Madrid quite early in the morning.' 'Be careful in the traffic there. And have a good time.' Thank you. Adios, senor.' So it went on. The day she went to Avila she was more enchanted than ever, with the lovely walled city. They talked for longer and he called her Venetia instead of senorita, and they were cut off in mid-sentence by a careless operator. From Segovia she talked to him, from Madrid again and from Burgos. His deep voice came over with a warmth that she had not noticed when she could see him. By then he was calling her Venetia all the time, and when she sometimes provoked him he laughed at her. When she saw beautiful things, or amusing or specially interesting ones, she made a mental note to tell him about them; and if they were cut off, or he himself kept the conversation short, she was disappointed. Then the last evening came, in Bilbao, before she boarded the ship for home. There were endless telephone delays and Venetia fretted over them, until at last she heard his voice as clearly as if he were in the next room.

'This is my last call, Don Andres,' she told him. 'Tomorrow my car goes on board. And the whole journey was, after all, without any unpleasant incident.' 'I'm glad to hear it. I wish you a pleasant homecoming. And I hope, Venetia, that when Joaquina comes to England, you will be able to see her.' 'I shall make a point of it.' 'I am constantly being lectured for letting you go. You are sadly missed, I'm afraid.' Venetia was tempted to ask by whom. Instead, she said: 'I can't thank everybody in your family enough for such kindness to me. I shall never forget it.' 'And I, Venetia, shall always think of you with the greatest pleasure,' he said. 'No doubt I shall have news of you.' Venetia thought all this was very different from their goodbye at the castillo; but if the warmth of Don Andres surprised her, she was even more surprised at herself. During all those days when she had been travelling alone, she had looked forward to the time in the evening when she would speak to him, but she had not expected to miss those calls when she reached home. But so it was. Something was lacking in the day. There was a hole in the evening, which should have been filled with the sound of his voice. She had reached home in the middle of the school term and had a fresh job lined up for the September term.

'It will be lovely to have you at home in the meantime,' her mother said. 'Oh, I'll have to find something to do,' Venetia said. 'I've been lazy for too long.' 'Toby has been telling us, Venetia, about the castle and the family and how much everybody liked you. It all sounded very grand indeed.' 'I enjoyed it, but it's lovely to be back.' 'Toby tried to alarm us by saying that you would probably marry your grandee of Spain and live in this fairy-tale castle for ever and be lost to us.' 'No fear of that,' said Venetia. 'He was kind to me, but really disapproved of me. And he seems all set to marry this perfectly lovely Fernanda de Trastamara. Everybody seems to want it and approve of it: the only one who doesn't wear his heart on his sleeve is Don Andres himself. But it does seem eminently suitable.' 'Is she really so lovely, Venetia?' 'Yes, she is. She gave me an outsize inferiority complex.' 'Venetia! What nonsense!' Looking at her lovely daughter with the corn-gold hair and the green eyes, Lady Hamilton refused to believe such a thing. 'Well, she did. It was as if she'd spent her whole life arriving at a pitch of perfection...' Venetia shook off the subject. They were seated in the garden, overlooking the rolling countryside of Sussex. 'Everything is so incredibly green here,' she said. 'One doesn't realise just how dry Spain is until one sees the lushness

here. They had a lovely garden, but only by watering constantly the hose never stops. And when one looked beyond the garden and the old walls and valley, the mountains were harsh and grim and inhospitable. Not a bit like this.' 'Well, I hope we shall be able to return their hospitality at some time, Venetia.' Venetia thought it hardly likely, except in the case of Joaquina when she arrived to stay with the d'EIboux. She could not imagine Don Andres in her own home, and she was sure the Senora de los Reyes and Emilia had never felt a desire to visit England. Anninha would like to come, but this Don Andres would certainly forbid. Her brother Timothy carried her off to see John d'EIboux in hospital. Timothy had corn-gold hair like Venetia, the same greygreen eyes, but was six feet tall and broad-shouldered. As both he and Toby had acquired girl-friends, they could hardly wait for Joaquina's arrival. 'Poor old John is feeling odd man out. You must come and tell him all about Joaquina and cheer him up.' John was frustrated by the slow process of mending the complicated break in his leg, and bored by the inactivity. He welcomed Venetia ardently, talked at length about Joaquina, the castle and all the people in it, and implored Venetia to come again soon. She became a regular visitor, feeling that John was a link with the castle for her, as she was a link for him. She wrote encouragingly to Joaquina, waiting with more eagerness than was reasonable for Joaquina's reply, hoping for news of Don Andres, disappointed that he was scarcely mentioned. She was so unusually restless that she had to have something to do and offered her services to the local cottage hospital. As it was the holiday season and the hospital was even more short of staff than usual,

she was seized upon eagerly and given a great variety of jobs to do, from typing in the office to carrying trays to the wards and feeding one or two patients unable to feed themselves. She threw out dead flowers, arranged the fresh ones that visitors brought, took temperatures and distributed pills. She made beds, and would not confess that this job she hated made her back ache. She even learned to bath babies and then carried them to their mothers in the small maternity wards. All of this she wrote in letters to Joaquina to entertain her. But she admitted to herself in her most honest moments that her real purpose in writing was to keep in touch with the family in the castle in Spain.

CHAPTER VII JOAQUINA arrived in England in beautiful summer weather to stay with Lady d'Elboux, and promptly fell in love with everything that awaited her. John's leg was now in plaster from hip to toe and he had been sent home with instructions to use it as much as possible. Joaquina was a godsend because she kept him occupied and absorbed, looked after him, ran to fetch and carry for him, and adored every moment of it. She loved the long, low white house set in its well-maintained parkland, she was astonished at the beauty of England and its lush trees and abundant flowers when she has expected greyness and rain and frequent mists. She was still quiet and shy, but was no longer apprehensive. John had been astounded by the improvement in her English, and went on to enrich it further by the words that lovers use to each other. She became part of the circle of young people that included Timothy and Toby and their girl-friends and Venetia. She was often at Venetia's home for parties at the pool, but Venetia was only there when her cottage-hospital duties allowed it. Venetia, in fact, was finding them all rather young for her. She could not keep from her mind and memory the picture of Don Andres, with all his responsibilities, and his maturity sat well upon him and appealed infinitely to Venetia. On the long, light evenings of summer, she would wander away from the group of young people gathered together in the garden room after supper, and wander in the garden alone. Away from the sound of young voices to hear the deeper, warmer tones that had come to her over the telephone on those evenings when she called Don Andres to put his mind at rest. Until the evening when,

darkness stealing across the sky from the east, and rose and amethyst lingering in the west after the setting of the sun, she suddenly wished that he could be here with her to share the hush of the evening, that she could be walking in the garden with him instead of alone, and knew that it would be a long long time before she would stop wishing to be with him. She wished for it every day, she thought of him constantly. It would not be denied any longer. She loved him. 'And there's no joy to be got from that,' she told herself unhappily. 'He disapproves of me. When he thinks of marriage he thinks of his own countrywomen. He has even pointed out to me all the things that militate against our getting on together. He has said that he thinks I am lacking in judgment and common sense. I know he also thinks I am too free and lacking in taste. So what can ever come of such a fruitless love?' Yet they had always made an impact on each other. The fact that he had so clearly seen that 'it would never do', surely indicated that he had thought about it. Venetia believed that he had liked her despite himself; perhaps as one might like a naughty child while still trying to correct it. Each of those evening telephone conversations had seemed to her to be warmer and friendlier than the one before. 'But warmth and friendliness are not the same as love,' she reminded herself. In a way, it made her sadder still to see Joaquina blossoming in magic fashion under the influence of love. As soon as John's leg was better, they would travel to the castillo to ask Don Andres' approval to their engagement. She was sure she would love living in England, and she would love having Venetia so close to her. 'But I shall start work again in September,' said Venetia, 'in a big new school on the outskirts of London.' And she looked ruefully at

what that meant: the enormous building with the great glass sides of windows, the scurrying schoolgirls with their problems, the tremendous effort to interest them in her subjects, the rivalries of the common room. She hoped it would be a better disciplined school than the last, that the mistresses would be approachable: in short that it would be a happy school. But what she longed for was a room in the ancient walls of a castle in Spain, a view over those massive walls to the high sierra beyond, the sight of Don Andres returning from his morning ride, a superb rider superbly mounted; and the chance that in any room, around any corner, in the garden, she would meet Don Andres himself. She remembered being in his arms on that last occasion when she had declared she would hate to be a pampered plaything: remembered his tenderness and was racked by sudden jealousy to know that, as far as she was concerned, it had been no more than a 'test case' and that Fernanda might accept happily the real thing, might even now be on the point of marriage to him. So that when she returned from the hospital one afternoon to discover on the hall table at home a thick, square white envelope with an interlacing of red initials on the flap, she was thrown into a tremendous confusion, which was part excitement and part apprehension. What could this portend? Oh, was he telling her of his engagement to Fernanda ? She could hardly bear to open the letter to know one way or the other. She took it up to her room and sat on the window seat with the letter in her lap, thinking of a dozen things it might contain; but at last tore open the envelope and took out the sheets covered with Don Andres' handwriting. She read it and put it down on her lap with a sigh. No need for the apprehensionFernanda was not mentioned. But perhaps some reason for the excitement, for he was inviting her back to the Castillo, and, of . all things, on Anninha's account.

Don Andres said it would soon be her summer holidays. Emilia was betrothed to Ramon and had little time for her young sister. Joaquina was in England. The little one was going to be lonely; and although he would allow visits from one or two of her school friends, there would be times when she would need companionship, and perhaps times when two young girls together would need supervision; and since Anninha's English had improved so much at the time of Venetia's last visit, he would be pleased for her to improve it yet more. Also, he had understood that Venetia was free until the autumn, and everybody at the castle would be charmed and delighted if she would pay them a return visit. Well, well, well! Venetia was astonished. And slow excitement began to rise in her as she thought of going back, until she could sit still on the window seat no longer. She walked about the room, coming back to the window to look at the garden without noticing it; seeing instead the garden of the castillo and the pool beyond and the high archway leading to the stony road and the hairpin bends. 'I shall see him again,' she whispered to herself. 'I shall see him again,' and suddenly waltzed round her room on a tide of happiness. Joaquina's reaction to the news was: 'Oh, Venetia, you are always leaving me!' 'Always? This will be the second time. And you certainly don't need me, and perhaps Anninha does. Don Andres thinks she might be lonely.' 'Yes,' admitted Joaquina. 'Emilia will be thinking of nothing but her wedding and her house and furniture, and will not remember Anninha. And Don Andres seems to have no time for anybody but

Fernanda these days. And you know when Anninha is bored, she gets into mischief.' Venetia thought that if she had needed anything to bring her back to earth, it was that innocent remark of Joaquina's. 'Don Andres has no time for anybody but Fernanda.' Venetia had been so elated at the prospect of seeing him again that she had not realised she might see him as the lover of Fernanda. Would that not be unbearable for her? In spite of the rapid sobering down, she knew that she must see him again, whatever the cost, whatever the conditions. So she arrived at Malaga Airport, where she had said goodbye to Rosemary on the fateful day when she met Don Andres, to find Jos waiting for her with a car. In careful Spanish he conveyed Don Andres' regrets that he had been unable to come himself, as he had an important meeting with the developers of his land at the coast. She looked eagerly for landmarks that were becoming familiar to her: the spot where her car had broken down, certainly in a wild and unpopulated spot. What would have happened if Don. Andres had not chanced along that evening? There were the wildly curving bends which had frightened her in his car; there the approach to the village and the village itself like a peak of snow on the top of the hill; and now the beginning of the steep ascent to the castillo itself. Then they were through the archway, past the courtyard, on the drive to the main hall. Jose took her luggage into the hall. Matias came to meet her with a smile and a bow. Pascuala came running to conduct her upstairs, her face beaming. Matias said he thought the Senorita Anninha was in the castillo.

'The senor thought you might like to have your old room,' he said, 'but if you would prefer to change, senorita, another will soon be prepared for you.' 'I like my old room,' she said, smiling at him; then, knowing he would like to hear it: 'It's like coming home.' And so it was. Her room was just as she had left it. The garden had changed only in the flowers in season now. The mimosas and jacarandas had ceased to bloom long ago, but other flowers took their place. Garden furniture, with its brightly coloured cushions, was still arranged round the pool, and Venetia knew that the gardener would come as usual in the morning with his net to fish the leaves from the surface of the water, and at night to lock the pavilion. Teresa came to unpack for her, followed by Anninha, who kissed Venetia affectionately and settled down to watch the unpacking. 'Pascuala is bringing coffee,' she said. 'May I stay and have it with you, Venetia? Tell me all about John and Joaquina. What is happening? can he walk yet? Does she like to be in England?' She chattered lightheartedly. She had certainly not forgotten her English. It made it possible for her to say things she would not otherwise have said in front of the maids. As Teresa put away Venetia's clothes and Pascuala arranged the coffee tray, Anninha said: 'There is no sense to be had from anybody in this place at the moment. Emilia thinks of nothing, nothing, but her marriage. A house is being built on Senor de Trastamara's estate for them. It is a most beautiful spot. And she and Ramon are gathering furniture for it, and Emilia and Mama are always away choosing materials for the house or having fittings for clothes: or interior decorators

are here covering every sofa and table with pieces of gorgeous materials and wallpaper or carpet. And Emilia can't see anything that isn't connected with this wedding...' 'It's a lovely time for her,' said Venetia. 'Perhaps the loveliest,' said Anninha shrewdly. 'This is the exciting time. Alter she's married, it will be so dull with that stupid Ramon.' 'Anninha, you are unkind to speak of him like that.' 'But he is stupid. But then Emilia is too, so perhaps they won't notice it, and will be happy together.' 'I despair of you, you bad girl,' said Venetia. 'No, you don't. I believe you agree with me but think it is not good manners to say so And Don Andres is almost as bad: hardly ever in the castillo because he is escorting Fernanda or dining at the Trastamara house. Honestly, Venetia, everybody in the place is in love.' 'You too, Anninha?' asked Venetia, laughing. 'Yes, of course,' she answered surprisingly. 'You know I am in love, Venetia.' 'Not again?' Venetia tried to keep the conversation light. 'No, not again. Does one fall in love again and again ? It is the same love.' 'I hoped you had got over that infatuation,' said Venetia seriously.

'I don't know what is an infatuation, but I have not got over anything. But we will not speak of it. I can wait.' The maids disappeared and the two girls talked a little longer before Anninha said she would leave Venetia to rest after her journey, and meet her later by the pool. Venetia, left alone in her room, had been given plenty of food for thought. So Anninha was still hankering after the bold young Felix. And Don Andres was absorbed in the beautiful Fernanda. She wondered if she had been wise to come. It now seemed obvious to her that Don Andres had invited her here solely to keep Anninha from becoming bored and doing something foolish. Had he only wanted Venetia in the capacity of a watchdog? And if Timothy and Toby and John seemed too young for her, then Anninha was far too young to be a proper companion. Venetia decided she could only wait and see how the visit turned out. They met in the sala before dinner, she and Don Andres, the only two people there. He turned from the long wall table on which a large silver tray held the drinks and glasses. 'Senorita!' He came towards her, bent over her hand with a distant indication of kissing it. 'What a great pleasure it is to see you here again.' But he said it formally, without the warmth she had been sure would be there; and he was as aloof and grave and formal as when she first met him. Had she expected him to change, she wondered, just because she had changed ? Her brilliant smile disappeared and desolation threatened. She began to see that she was punishing herself by coming here. 'Dona Eulalia will be here at any moment,' he said. 'She is talking to Senorita Fernanda in her boudoir. And Anninha you have seen

already, I believe. Emilia and Ramon are dining out this evening.... I hope you left everybody well at home, senorita?' Polite conversation, polite enquiries. His dark eyes serious and watchful. Venetia trying to mask her disappointment. Then the arrival of the senora with Fernanda, as beautiful as ever, giving Don Andres a charming smile and a lingering look as she turned slowly towards Venetia and said it was delightful to meet her again. Fernanda once more in white: she must know how well it suited the golden-brown skin and the abundant gleaming black hair. Simple white, but so beautifully cut, and so well showing off her jewels. The ideal Spanish wife, thought Venetia, and the desolation crept a little closer. She was quieter that evening than was normal for her, despite the informality that Fernanda's presence encouraged, for Fernanda's vivacity brought out the liveliness in Anninha and smiles from the senora, and kept conversation flowing between herself and Don Andres. And if Don Andres regarded Venetia thoughtfully several times that evening, she herself was not aware of it, adrift in the hopelessness of this love she felt for him. So the old routine, at first, seemed to be the same. The days, for Venetia, were quiet and rather dull; but enlivened every now and then by a sudden spurt of liveliness and gaiety as the two families met each other for dinner parties: those dinner parties at which the men were so formal, and even the least handsome given glamour by the immaculate white tuxedo; and at which the women blossomed like flowers in their beautiful dresses and lovely jewels. Emilia and Ramon were petted and treated like favourite children, for hadn't they taken the first step in uniting the two families in a permanent bond?

Then, on a quieter evening, when Venetia said goodnight to the senora and left the sala with Anninha on their way to bed, Don Andres emerged from the study and asked to speak to her. 'Do you want me, Don Andres ?' asked Anninha. 'No, Anninha, you may go to bed. Buenas noches, nina.' Anninha said good-night to them both and ran lightly up the stairs and Venetia turned to Don Andres. 'I thought you might be interested, Venetia, in coming with me tomorrow to see the development on my stretch of the coastline, and another woodland development. But if you have anything else arranged, please say so.' 'I should love to come,' she told him, feeling an uplift of the heart at the mere thought of it. 'It's a long run. And there is quite a lot to see. Would it be too early for you to start at nine-thirty?' 'Not at all, senor.' 'Then I will order your breakfast tray for eight-thirty, Venetia, and meet you in the hall. Buenas noches, senorita.' 'Good-night, Don Andres.' She went upstairs on winged feet. A long runin the car with him. A great deal to seebeing shown round by him. But perhaps not alone with him? He had not said. Perhaps somebody else would be there. Fernanda would spoil the day for her, she knew. Even Senor de Quevedo would be a hindrance.

She wore a white dress and white sandals, carried her bag, her floppy straw hat and the indispensable white stole. These last things could be thrown into the back of the car and forgotten until they were needed. Don Andres came into the hall a minute or so after Venetia, in an immaculate cream suit, carrying a brief case and a pair of dark glasses. 'Buenos dias, Venetia. So we are off,' he said, putting his free hand on her elbow and steering her out through the doorway as Matias held open the door and bowed them out. 'And a lovely day for it,' he said, lifting his head, 'with enough breeze to keep us cool.' The glare from the sun was already dazzling, so that they immediately put on their dark glasses. 'You must have seen many developments along the Costa del Sol, Venetia,' he said, as they drove out through the archway and began to descend the steep roadway. 'It's getting difficult nowadays to put a pin between them.' 'I have seen them, yes,' she admitted. Then you know that there are all kinds. Some of the urbanizacions with very small houses crowded close together; other huge apartment blocks with gardens and swimming pools and shopping centres; and as the developments provide larger houses in larger gardens, so the price rises. 'Well, there are some of us who are trying to develop our land so that it does not lose all traces of its original beauty. There are very few of us who can afford not to use our land at all in this way. I can remember when I was a child, Venetia, one could walk for many, many miles along this coastline on rubbishy beaches, and at most one would arrive at a fishing village where the people were

very poor. One could not have sold the land then. Now it is not unlike discovering a goldmine there. 'What we are selling, of course, is sunshine. Sunshine is something we have in excess in Spain. Sunshine in winter, sunshine that is like gold itself to people from the cold and sunless northern countries. But what I, and some other landowners like me, are doing is providing beautiful and secluded plots of land. We try to preserve vistas, to keep the trees and shrubs or plant fresh ones, to arrange houses so that no one can see his neighbour; and we build the houses if this is what the purchasers want, and insist on approving the architects' plans if they prefer to build themselves.' 'So your houses must be very expensive,' said Venetia. 'They only seem expensive because foreigners coming here hope that everything in Spain will be cheap. In their own countries they would expect to pay these prices. I have two sections under development: one is coastal, the other a woodland site in from the coast, which I much prefer. But you will see for yourself.' 'I shall be very interested.' They drove in silence for a short distance before Venetia said: 'I am deserting Anninha to-day. What will she do with herself?' 'This is the day her friend Lucia arrives to spend a week with her. I am rescuing you from incessant girlish chatter.' 'That was kind of you, Don Andres.' 'I have been a little concerned about the child. Life has become very busy and very full for the rest of the family, but not for Anna. I think she misses Joaquina, too. I thought it would not be good for

her to mope alone and I remembered that you two were in sympathy; but my intention was not to condemn you entirely to a fifteen-year-old. That would be dull for you after what you have been doing.' 'What was that?' asked Venetia, not certain what he referred to. 'The hospital work. You wrote to Joaquina about it and she read your letters to the family. Perhaps because they were amusing, and partly, I think, to prove to us what useful work you were doing.' 'I can't be lazy for very long,' Venetia told him, 'and all hospitals are short of staff in England. It was physically hard work, but in the end less tiring than school-teaching, which is mentally hard work.' 'Yet you will go back to schoolteaching in the autumn.' 'Yes, it's what I'm trained for. But I do hope to have a happy school this time. Oh, don't let's talk about that,' she exclaimed suddenly. 'Don't let's spoil this heavenly day with talk of school and schoolgirls. Spain is spoiling me,' she added. 'If I stayed here long, I should begin to spend my time lotus-eating. I wish I could buy some of your sunshine, Don Andres.' 'You can,' he told her. 'I will reserve for you whichever plot you choose.' 'Another pipe-dream,' she said. 'I have no money.' 'But you have a wealthy mother,' he reminded her. 'Not wealthy. Well-to-do. Quite different. And that is her money, not mine. I earn my own living.'

'Yes, yes, I remember very well.' 'Sorry,' she said. "Why are you sorry, senorita?' 'For rubbing it in. I know you don't approve of such independence. Don't let's talk about that either, senor.' Then what shall we talk about, Venetia ?' 'Ships and shoes and sealing wax, and cabbages and kings. And why the sea is boiling hot, and whether pigs have wings.' 'What?' She laughed aloud and he took his eyes from their watchful study of the road to glance at her perceptively; because she sounded happy now, and had not looked very happy since her return to the castle. 'You don't know Alice in Wonderland, or Through the Lookingglass?' 'I've heard of them. They were not included in my books as a child,' he said. 'If I dare say so, it sounds like rubbish.' 'Not rubbish,' she said. 'Nonsense perhaps, but glorious nonsense. And probably untranslatable.' They went on in silence, despite the cabbages and kings, until they arrived at Don Andres' woodland development, and he drew his car off the road and stopped in a parking place where several other cars were parked. Immediately, from a temporary office building, two men came to greet him. He introduced them to Venetia, but

from the rapid Spanish which followed, she gathered that he was telling them he did not need them to-day, but was showing the senorita round. There were various things they wanted to discuss with him, but he waved them away with an autocratic hand. Perhaps later, or another day, or they could telephone him that night. But not now. So they smiled, and bowed to Venetia, and Watched her walk away with Senor Arevalo y Llorento. Venetia thought his manner arrogant, but she knew that these men understood that and even expected it: even seemed to like it. There was no resentment at all, as there might have been from staff in England. It was a long walk, which might have been exhausting had it not been so intensely interesting; for here was land which had been rather unproductive forest, picturesque in the extreme but not profitable, suddenly yielding up riches of an unforeseen kind. Up and down hill they went as Don Andres pointed out houses in various stages of building, some finished, some half-finished, some merely promised for the future by the pegs driven into the ground. And there were many plots still to be developed; and at each of them Venetia stood to admire the view that some as yet unknown owner would enjoy. From some, the intensely blue Mediterranean could be seen over undulating woodlands; from others the crystalline dazzling beauty of the high sierra rising above the forest. Trees of special beauty and character were earmarked to stay: not even their future owners would be allowed to cut them down without permission, according to their agreements. Northern sides of the ridges were to remain undeveloped to preserve the beauty and the privacy. Don Andres might not consider the plots or houses expensive, but Venetia could see they were hardly for the masses.

'Now,' he said at last, 'you must be tired and in need of luncheon. I have been selfish in insisting on showing you almost everything. We will see the seashore development after lunch; but I think that you, like myself, will probably like this one better.' He took her to a small, insignificant-looking restaurant at the side of the mountain road. By herself, Venetia would certainly have passed it by; but as the car stopped, she noticed that the other cars parked there were expensive makes and had Spanish number plates. And as Don Andres led her to the doorway across the hot, dry gravel, the proprietor himself came to the door to greet them: a barrel-shaped man of middle age, wearing a spotless white apron and beaming on Don Andres and Venetia. 'Buenos dias, Senor Arevalo. My establishment is honoured. Senorita.' He gave Venetia a bow. 'Does the senor wish almuerzo?' He was delighted that the senor intended to take lunch there. 'But there is no table nice enough for the senor here. Perhaps the patio?' They decided on the patio, where only three or four tables were laid, where it was cool and shady, and the columns supporting the roof also supported a riot of morning glory and geranium. They drank cool white wine as an aperitif, and were brought prawns to begin with, freshly caught, the proprietor assured them, arranged with meticulous nicety in a wide circle on a dish with cut lemons piled in the centre. 'Well, Venetia,' asked Don Andres, 'what were your impressions of my kind of development?' 'It is really beautiful,' she averred. 'You will be giving a great many people happiness, Don Andres, by making it possible for them to live here.'

'One cannot give people happiness, Venetia. Surely you know that.' 'Well, you are at least giving them the opportunity to buy beauty and privacyand peace. I felt that there was peace of a very special kind there.' 'Just as one can't give happiness, Venetia, so one can't buy peace.' 'Oh, you are being difficult,' said Venetia, but smiled at him. 'You know quite well what I mean. There are various kinds of peace.' 'Just as there are various kinds of non-peace,' he agreed. "Nonpeace needn't mean war; but it might mean restlessness or frustration or discontent; or simply not knowing quite what it is that one wants.' 'Yes, you are quite right.' And she could have added another cause of non-peace: being in love with a man whose destiny seemed to lie elsewhere. That certainly brought restlessness and frustration in its train. Then she wondered if he felt restlessness or frustration. He never gave any indication of it. Was it possible that he might not know what it was that he wanted? And if that were true, could it be in relation to Fernanda? They enjoyed an excellent meal, they lingered over coffee on the patio in the heat of the day, and Venetia listened while Don Andres and the proprietor held a lengthy conversation. She guessed the proprietor was forgoing his siesta for this privilege; and when Don Andres insisted that he should sit down with them, he sent for liqueurs and insisted that the senorita should accept a cognac when Venetia would rather not have done. So that when, at last, she drove on with Don Andres, she was overwhelmingly sleepy,

nodded off more than once, and finally fell asleep with her head on his shoulder. When she woke, she could not remember for a few moments where she was, or why she was there. The car was drawn up on a lay-by on a woodland road, enclosed by trees, enwrapped in the hush of a still, hot afternoon. She felt warm, lazy and comfortable, and only by degrees did she realise that her cheek was against Don Andres' shoulder, that his arm was round her, and that she detected a masculine aroma compounded faintly of after-shave and cigars. She supposed she should have felt embarrassment. In fact, she was so delightfully comfortable and so pleasantly surprised to find herself where she never expected to be that she stayed where she was, luxuriating in the moments that she knew would be all too brief. 'So you are awake at last,' said Don Andres' voice softly above her head. Even then, she could not bring herself to move away from him. 'Mmmm,' she murmured sleepily. 'You looked so dreadfully uncomfortable,' he said, 'that I took the liberty of trying to make you more comfortable while you slept.' 'You succeeded very well, Don Andres. Have I been sleeping long?' 'Quite a long while. I obviously overtired you this morning, for which I am sorry.' 'I think it was too much eating and drinking. Overindulgence,' said Venetia. 'I must have delayed you, for which J am sorry.'

'De nada,' he said. There was a pause and Venetia, thinking that she must move now, looked through the windscreen at the trees ahead of her and realised that their dark trunks made a mirror of the window, in which she and Don Andres were faintly reflected. And what she saw then amazed her, for his head was bent over hers, and his lips brushed softly backwards and forwards over her hair. She scarcely felt the touch and thought she must have imagined it because almost at once he removed his arm from round her shoulders, so that she could free herself, and sat up straight as if to resume his driving. 'Now,' he said, cool and businesslike, 'do you feel like going on to the seashore development, Venetia, or are you too tired? Shall we go back to the castillo?' 'Oh no, certainly not. That would be to inconvenience you. Besides, I am interested to see it." What she more truthfully could have said was: 'Don't let us shorten this wonderful day by one single moment.' So they drove on. The coastal development was attractive and interesting, but Venetia agreed with Don Andres that it had not the same charm and magical atmosphere as the woodland one. When they left for the long drive to the castillo, they were both in quiet mood. They spoke little, but Venetia was content. Not only had she had him all to herselfas she had hoped, but feared was impossiblebut there had been the most perfect amity between them. No difference of opinion, no squabbling. Just a perfect day to remember. When they drove into the courtyard, Jose the chauffeur came to put the car away.

'No, leave it,' said Don Andres. 'I am going out to dine.' And Venetia felt the first disappointment of the day. They walked through the loftily baronial hall together. 'I think we have time for an aperitif in my study,' Don Andres said, 'before we change for dinner,' and Venetia, responding to every slightest change in the atmosphere like a barometer, felt her spirits rise again. 'I had a wonderful day, Don Andres,' she said, as he brought her sherry. 'Thank you so much for showing me round. I found it most interesting.' 'I thought you would. I don't burden all my guests in that way. And it saved you, at least, from Anninha and Lucia, for one day.' She wanted to ask him if that was his only reason for taking her; but perhaps she would not like the answer, and she did not want to spoil this day, so she remained quiet. But one small thing did spoil it after all. When she joined Dona Eulalia and the two young girls in the sala before dinner, Dona Eulalia said: 'We are a very feminine company to-night. Don Andres is taking Fernanda to dine with friends, and Ramon and Emila are with the Trastamaras.' If he had dined at home, Venetia thought, the whole day would have been perfect. Now she wondered if he had been doing his duty all day, and was finding his pleasure now with Fernanda. She knew she had doomed herself to this kind of frustrating speculation by coming back to the castle, but she could not help speculating. It was all part of the fever and the fret of love.

The two young girls, far from pestering Venetia with their chatter, seemed to avoid her as much as possible. Only when they needed her to drive them somewhere did they seek her out. Anninha pointed out that Lucia had not yet seen the village, so Venetia drove them there, and while she shopped for a few trifles, they gave her the slip and explored by themselves. Venetia wondered if Felix had formed any part of their plan to visit the village. They usually rode together in the morning, and this seemed to be in line with Don Andres' ruling. Venetia was pleased rather than otherwise by the arrangement. She did not particularly like Anninha's friend, and since Anninha in her company acted far more ostentatiously, and giggled a great deal over trifles, Venetia was happy to leave them together. One afternoon, when she presumed everybody else was enjoying siesta, she sat in a shady retreat in the garden reading in Spanish. It was still hard work for her but absorbing: so much so that she did not hear the approach of the two girls until they were almost upon her. They too should have been resting in their rooms. It was an order from Senora de los Reyes, since they dined late with the family and were never in bed before midnight. They sat on a garden seat, hidden from Venetia by trees and shrubs. Since they seemed restless, Venetia hoped they would soon go away again and remained quiet. She had no slightest intention of listening to their conversation; and afterwards was not sure if she was sorry or glad that she had overheard it. 'But what can you do?' asked Lucia, obviously continuing something that had gone before.

'Not very much as long as Venetia is here. But your being here is a great help, Lucia, because we can do things together. I wish you were staying longer.' 'Me too, but I have to go to Lisboa with Mama.' 'Now that Felix has the motorbike, it is better. I have been saving pocket money all the summer, and I had my birthday money, and I did as you suggested, Lucia, and asked Mama for money for the Sisters of Light charity, and with all that, Felix was able to get a second-hand bike.' 'And we all thought he was wonderful that day he came down to the Convent and we all had to walk to the Cathedral and he just sat on the bike and watched us all go by.' 'I nearly died,' said Anninha. 'Thinking one of the Sisters would connect him with me.' 'How could they? But really, Anna, he is so handsome.' 'And I nearly died that evening when I went down through the garden and met him by the fence. Of course the gate into the lane was locked, but we could talk over the fence.' 'I know. I do think you are brave. I wouldn't have dared,' said Lucia. 'You could have been expelled.' 'I was frightened the first time. After that, I got used to it.' 'He must love you terribly to come such a long way just to talk for a little while.' 'He says he doesn't want me to forget him,' Anninha confided. 'But I think, too, he loves riding the motorbike.' Venetia thought this

showed the shrewdness she had noticed before in Anninha; but by the rest of the conversation she was appalled. They spoke in rapid Spanish, but she was sure she had the gist of it. And she was sure, even before the conversation ended, that it put a tremendous responsibility on to her shoulders. 'Will you meet him to-morrow morning, Anna ?' 'If you will ride with me, Lucia darling.' 'Of course. You must make the most of it while I'm here.' 'We can ride away from the village, because Felix travels so quickly on the bike; and that will put everybody off the scent.' 'But how will you manage when I have gone ?' 'Felix is to start a new job soon, so we couldn't meet anyway. He has been working for Don Andres most of the summer, but he thinks he can earn more money at the coast at this time of year. I shall be quite desolated, and I'm sure he will be too. He says we shall have to run away together.' 'Oh, Anna, you would never do such a thing!' 'No,' said Anninha reflectively, 'I suppose I wouldn't.' But she did not sound convinced of it, Venetia thought. 'Shall we swim?' asked Lucia, with a rapid change of subject. 'We're supposed to be having siesta,' Anninha reminded her. 'Oh, so we are. Well, come for a walk, then, and we'll swim later.' The girls rose from the garden seat. 'Do you know, Anna, my cousins in Lisboa are seventeen and nineteen; and they are both

handsome, and Mama says I may Venetia did not hear what it was that Lucia's mother said she might do, as the girls disappeared among the shrubs and their voices died away. So the affair between Anninha and Felix still flourished, and was far from being the innocent thing she had formerly supposed. He had managed to get a motorcycle from her, although she was only fifteen; and Lucia apparently had not been above making dubious suggestions as to how Anninha could raise the money. Venetia hoped that Anninha, left to herself, would not have thought of asking for money for charity and then' using it for her own ends. And the young man went as far as the convent to meet her, which could involve her in great trouble. Either he was thoughtless in the extreme, or he was unscrupulous. Remembering that he had suggested to Anninha that they run away together (although it might have been said as a joke), Venetia tended to think he was unscrupulous. She remembered the bold look in his dark eyes, the challenging and provocative smile; and she thought the fifteenyear-old Anninha was no match for him. That evening, there was a dinner party at the castle. Sixteen people were present, including the Trastamara family, Father Ignatio, and Don Andres' friend, Don Francisco Olivares. It was a glittering social occasion and a formal one. Venetia wore her lime-green dress and was happy about her appearance until she saw Fernanda splendid in gold: so sophisticated that Venetia felt relegated to the rank of the two schoolgirls who were allowed to be present. It was no good, she thought, she could not compete. Her dress had been bought at a boutique which was expensive by Venetia's standards, but she knew without being told that Fernanda's had come from a top couturier and had been faultlessly fitted regardless of time or expense.

It did not help Venetia very much that Don Francisco was so charming to her: nor that Father Ignatio found her so interesting on the subject of schools in England that he omitted to notice that Senora de los Reyes wanted to speak to him. Nor that Gregorio monopolised her for some time, confiding facts about his beautiful little family left in Rio. Venetia was having considerable success at this dinner party without realising it. Everybody seemed to like her and want to talk to her. She was achieving the almost impossible and being made to feel like one of the family, yet she felt a strange sorrowfulness, a hint of desolation, which she knew had been induced by Fernanda's perfection and poise. On her first sojourn here, she had been complimented by Don Andres when she wore this same lime-green dress. He had said she was very beautiful that evening, but he could not think so this evening comparing her with the stunning and vivacious beauty of Fernanda. Even so, she realised that several times his eyes rested on her thoughtfully, and such was her idea of the relationship between them, that she wondered what she was doing that was wrong. Certainly if she had needed proof of the intimacy between Don Andres and Fernanda, she had it at that dinner party. She thought the whole world could see the easy relationship between them. Shortly before midnight, Senora de los Reyes sent the two young girls off to bed. They said demure and charming good-nights to the company, and as they passed Venetia and said good-night to her also, she said: 'Shall we ride together to-morrow morning, ninas?

She was aware of the alarmed glance that passed between them, and of the momentarily embarrassed silence before Anninha recovered herself, and replied: 'Si, senorita. What time would suit you?' 'Is ten o'clock too early?' 'Oh no, senorita. At ten, o'clock in the courtyard, then?' Venetia smiled at them, realising that they were wondering about their appointment with Felix. She wondered what they would do about that. This evening, she waited until the party ended before going to her room. It was two o'clock when she went to bed, and when Pascuala brought her breakfast tray, she wished that she had not asked the girls to ride. She was tired, and for once would have liked to stay in bed; but she dressed in riding clothes and made her way to the courtyard and the stables, where the groom appeared immediately to wait on her. After a few minutes' wait, Teresa appeared with a note from Anninha. It begged that the senorita would excuse Anninha and Lucia from riding that morning. Anninha had a sick headache and Lucia was very tired after the dinner party. They were sorry to inconvenience the senorita but hoped she would understand. The senorita understood only too well. Venetia rode out alone under the archway, and once embarked on her ride, enjoyed it very much. But when, from across a valley, she saw two riders at a canter making away from the village, she was not surprised. Anninha and Lucia had, after all, gone to meet the fascinating young Felix.

Venetia was very thoughtful as she returned to the castillo. She had not forgotten Don Andres' anger last time, when all Anninha had done was to meet the young man a few times in the publicity of the village. He had insisted that Venetia should have gone to him immediately. Now it was much more serious. Not only had Anninha not kept her promise not to see the young man again, but she had gone to considerable lengths to deceive not only her family, but the Sisters at the convent; and affairs had reached the dangerous stage where Felix was speaking of running away. Venetia knew that she could not wait until a disaster happened. She must act now. Felix might be as innocent as Anninha, but Venetia did not think so. He might feel that if he persuaded Anninha to run away with him, if he seduced her, her family might have to consent to a marriage between them. In that case, he did not know Don Andres, who would never consent to such a thing. Perhaps this young man saw himself provided for for life, but if so, he was again making a great mistake. He had no idea what he was up against, in having chosen a member of the family of Senor Andres Arevalo y Llorento. Don Andres, however, knew nothing about this, and Venetia had been invited from England mainly to keep Anninha company, and to prevent this kind of thing from happening. So there was one thing only to be done. However much she disliked repeating what she had overheard or betraying Anninha's confidence, she must inform Don Andres of the facts.

CHAPTER VIII THE following day, Don Andres was away all day, but Venetia's anxiety was not too great as long as Lucia was staying with Anninha. The day after that, Lucia's parents arrived to have lunch with the family and take their daughter away with them afterwards, and Venetia knew she could delay no longer. When Don Andres came into the hall from seeing the visitors away, she was waiting for him. 'Have you a few minutes to spare, Don Andres? I have something quite important to discuss with you.' 'Certainly,' he replied politely. 'Come into my study, senorita.' He seated her in one of the red leather chesterfields and himself took a corner in the opposite one. 'Now what is so important, Venetia?' he asked. 'Anninha, senor.' 'And what is the matter with Anninha?' 'She still thinks herself in love, senor, and is still seeing the young man Felix Perez.' Immediately, the black brows drew together ominously and his dark face was angry. 'Has she told you this?' he demanded. 'No, she has told me nothing. And I must tell you that I hate having to come and make a report about her which is going to make you

very angry. But I feel she is in danger, senor. I am sorry for her, because she is caught up in a first young love affair, and she doesn't see anything as it really is, and...' 'Please come to the facts. We can take Anninha's calf love for granted. What is it you know?' Venetia told him what she knew. Anninha had promised not to see the young man again, and perhaps she had kept her promise until Felix himself went to the convent and managed to see her. The affair of the motor-cycle had to be mentioned. Venetia would have preferred not to, but the deceit about the charity money was even more important than continuing to see Felix, in her opinion. That it was Lucia's suggestion and not Anninha's own idea, she also brought forward. 'In fact,' said Don Andres' cold and practical voice, 'they were meeting most of last term.' 'I'm afraid so, but can have had little, if any, time in privacy.' 'It's to be hoped not. And it continues now?' 'Yes, senor. The conversation, which I had no intention of eavesdropping on, made that quite plain. Perez even suggested, but of course it might have been a joke, that he and Anninha should run away together.' As his brow darkened ominously, she added hurriedly: 'I don't for a moment imagine that Anninha would do such a thing, but it made it imperative for me to see you about this as soon as possible.' 'I'm glad that you thought so, senorita. It must be stopped immediately. The fellow must go away, and Anninha will be closely guarded.'

'I believe he is going away, to work on the coast.' 'Not far enough, in my opinion. He's a clever young man, with a bold but attractive personality. But not clever enough, or he would know that he's in the wrong league: and with a character weakness that will lead him into trouble sooner or later. But I do not intend that he shall lead Anna into trouble too.... Very well, senorita, you may leave this with me.' She rose, feeling dismissed. 'I'm sorry to have to do this to Anninha. She is not going to like me for it.' 'In time, she will be extremely grateful to you for it.' 'In time, perhaps, but not now. It will make everything very difficult for all of us. Perhaps I shouldn't stay any longer, but go back to England now.' He turned swiftly to look at her, as she went to the door. 'No, senorita,' he said sharply. 'I do not wish you to go. I will not have you driven away.' She looked at him in surprise. 'But the idea was that I should come and keep Anninha company, and she's not going to find me very congenial company just now. In her disappointment, for she really believes herself in love, she may hate me for telling you about all this.' 'How can she know that you told me? It could have come from other sources.'

'Not very well, Don Andres, since it reveals things she could only have talked of herself. Besides, to let her think so is only to add another kind of deception. I would just as soon be forthright and let her know that I told you: then, whatever the state of our relationship, at least it's a sincere one.' He looked at her from dark eyes for long seconds. 'Very well, I will speak to Anna at once. Thank you, Venetia, for coming to me. You need not wait any longer.' He rang the bell, and as Venetia left the study, she saw Matias approaching along the corridor. No doubt, Matias was being sent to fetch Anninha from her siesta: and Anninha knowing nothing of what was in store for her. Venetia felt like a traitor and had an uncomfortable half hour in her room wondering what was happening downstairs in the study. But she knew she could have done no differently. It would have been as tragic for Anninha as for the rest of the family if she had been so foolish as to run off with Felix Perez. Whatever passed between Don Andres and Anninha in the study in that stormy hour, Venetia could only imagine; but the result was that Anninha shut herself in her room and would not emerge from it. No doubt, Don Andres had appeared terrifying, and not even the courage born of desperation would take Anninha very far. No doubt, also, Don Andres had told her that she would be closely guarded, and she realised that she stood little chance of meeting Felix. This being so, she would not meet anybody. She would not appear for any meals, and Senora de los Reyes, going to visit her in her room, emerged extremely worried about her. 'I shall send for the doctor,' she declared, but Don Andres prevented this.

'She is sulking,' he informed her mother. 'I had occasion to reprimand her, quite severely. But do not be concerned, Dona Eulalia, she will recover from it. She will soon be tired of having trays carried to her room, and come and rejoin her family.' 'Poor little Anninha, she has been rather out of things recently,' said Senora de los Reyes, an opinion Don Andres could not share. Venetia found herself at a loose end. Anninha did not want to see her, and when she was unavoidably in Venetia's presence, would not notice her or speak to her. Emilia was still caught up in the excitement of her approaching wedding and the house being built and furnished, and spent more time with the Trastamara family than with her own. The senora, as always, lived her own life in her own rooms, and met Venetia only at luncheon or dinner. 'I might just as well be at home,' Venetia told herself, but knew that one reason, and one reason only, kept her where she was. She could not tear herself away from the house in which Don Andres lived. As far as Venetia knew, Anninha made no effort to disobey the ruling that Don Andres had laid down. She stayed a great deal in her room and occasionally dawdled round the gardens. She no longer rode in the morning, she refused to swim. Occasionally, she drove out with her mother, but avoided this too if she could. Venetia thought she was bowing to the inevitable until one afternoon when, returning from the pool to her room by the side door and the spiral staircase, she encountered Inez dressed to go out. She smiled at the girl and passed a pleasant remark hoping she would enjoy her evening off, and was surprised that so ordinary a remark caused the girl to flush scarlet. Venetia's glance fell upon an envelope the girl was holding, and even as Inez thrust it behind

her, Venetia thought she recognised Anninha's round, schoolgirl handwriting. Oh no! she thought, despairing. Surely the silly girl was not maintaining a correspondence with Felix Perez by way of the maids in the house. She would have questioned Inez further, but Inez muttered an excuse about having a lift to the village and not keeping the man waiting, and almost ran away from Venetia, leaving her to ascend the spiral staircase slowly and thoughtfully. She supposed that she should let Don Andres know of her suspicion, even though it might be groundless, but she hated this private-eye task that she seemed to have assumed. It was only by reflecting on the damage that could be done, not only to Anninha's reputation but also to her future, that Venetia found any justification for it. Well, she thought on a sigh, I will tell him after dinner to-night. He was not at dinner after all. He dined out so often these days that Venetia grew increasingly unhappy about it. Not always at the Trastamara house, but very often with friends that he and Fernanda had in common. The senora nowadays often spoke as if the marriage was a foregone conclusion; and there was no doubt that a double link with her dear friend, first Emilia with Ramon and then Don Andres with Fernanda, would delight her. After dinner, at which Anninha, Ramon and Emilia were all present, Venetia, slightly bored and very restless, begged to be excused as she was tired. 'Ah, Venetia, I wonder if you would do me a kindness to-morrow morning?' the senora asked her as she said good-night. 'If I can, senora, I shall be delighted.'

'I have a present for the birthday of old Senora de Mendoza, and I wondered if you would drive over with it in the morning. Emilia would take it, but she is going back with Ramon to-night. I like her to receive it early. It would be good for Anninha to go with you and pay her respects, too.' 'Certainly, senora,' Venetia said, looking to Anninha for cooperation. Anninha nodded sulkily. 'Shall we say at ten, Anninha ? It's only about fifteen miles and won't take long.' 'Ten o'clock, senorita,' said. Anninha, unnecessarily formal and giving Venetia a hostile glance. Venetia thought it would hardly be a pleasant drive, but she might have an opportunity of beginning to put things straight with Anninha. So she waited at ten o'clock in the hall, and cooled her heels for a quarter of an hour. Anninha was determined to be unco-operative. Venetia rang the bell and when Pascuala appeared, asked her to remind Anninha of her appointment. Pascuala returned. The Senorita Anna had a bad sick headache and travelling in the car would make it worse. She was going to rest in her room. 'Very well,' said Venetia, picking up the parcel and the enormous bouquet of flowers which the senora was sending to her old and impoverished friend. Pascuala insisted upon carrying them out to the car for her. No servant at the castillo would permit one to carry a parcel. Jose was waiting in case she needed a chauffeur, but Venetia preferred to drive herself, and was soon negotiating the steep hairpin bends. She did not believe in the sick headache. She believed that Anninha was sulking and had had no intention of coming with her from the moment the senora mentioned the trip. Anninha had not

yet forgiven her. It was a difficult age, as Venetia well knew, having taught classes of girls of the same age; and it was no good telling Anninha now that she would get over it. She would not believe it now. Senora de Mendoza was very old, very charming and quite queenly. She had seen better days, but her present poverty made no difference to her gracious manners. She insisted that Venetia should take coffee with her, exclaimed in delight at the wonderful flowers, enquired after the health of every member of the castillo family, and kept Venetia for almost an hour. Venetia drove back leisurely, always enjoying the spectacular views of the countryside about her; and arrived back at the castillo to find that a full-blown crisis had erupted during her absence. Anninha had disappeared. Nobody had seen her since Pascuala reminded her of her appointment with Venetia. A school friend had telephoned to invite her to lunch and dinner, and to stay the night if she chose, and the senora sent for Anninha to know if she would like to go. She was not in her room and could not be found in the castle or the gardens. The senora promised to call back, and had half the staff searching everywhere for her daughter. Don Andres was informed that Anninha could not be found, and caused surprise by the fact that he was immediately so angry and so concerned. The groom arrived to say that one of the horses was missing and it was presumed that Anninha was riding. But she knew that riding alone was forbidden, and she should not have gone out after refusing to go with Venetia. Don Andres immediately ordered his car to be brought, and although the staff and the family did not know where he had gone, Venetia felt sure he had raced off to the village to find out the whereabouts of Felix Perez.

Hearing all this from the senora and from Emilia and Ramon, seeing the maids flapping about in a near panic, Venetia glanced at her watch and discovered that Anninha could only have been gone for two and a half hours. She had taken her horse, which was her only means of transport without help from somebody else, and it would take her almost an hour to reach the village. By now, of course, she could be perched on the back of Felix's motor-cycle, scorching along the tortuous roads; but it was also possible that nothing like so catastrophic a stage had been reached, and that the two young people were simply meeting, as she had seen them meet once before, to walk and .talk together away from the watchful eyes of the villagers. Suddenly she made up her mind to ride after Anninha. She rang for a maid, and asked Teresa to go to the stables and have a horse saddled for her, then ran upstairs to change her immaculate dress for riding clothes. She said to a surprised senora: 'I know where Anninha sometimes likes to ride, I may be able to find her,' and was off before they could offer her a groom to go with her, through the high archway and picking her way down the stony road. She knew the point at which Anna turned off through the olive grove, but found it very different riding over the course from observing it from her window high up on the hill. She felt sure she was right, however, and there was always the village perched white and beautiful on its own hill to guide her from a distance. It was rougher going than she had expected. There was a path of sorts which petered out several times at areas of common or scrubby ground, and reappeared again through woods or groves. Then suddenly she came to a quite unexpected river. It was not visible from the castle and, at this time of year, she would have expected it to be dry; but water still ran over the rough and rocky

bed which was too steep for Venetia's liking. It looked dangerous to her and she hardly liked to risk the feet of the horse among the tumbled, loose boulders. But still, if Anninha had done it, Venetia could too, but she would pick her way along the side of the river until she came to a less inhospitable way to cross. She saw the horse first, peacefully grazing on a patch of rough, dry grass. It startled her, coming upon it so suddenly, so quietly. Then Anninha must be somewhere aboutperhaps with the bold young Felix. Venetia looked about her, but everything was quiet, peaceful, undisturbed, and she saw nobody, heard no sound of voices. If Anninha had somehow crossed the river on foot, which she might have been foolish enough to do, leaping from boulder to boulder, she would at least have tethered her horse; and this she had not done. He was free to move about as he liked. Was it possible that she had been thrown, and was lying somewhere injured? Feeling a little foolish at shouting in the peaceful hush of the dry heat of the middle of the day, Venetia began to call: 'Anninha! Anninha! Coo-ee, coo-ee!' but completely without result. She tethered her own horse to a stunted tree and went toward Anninha's with the idea of finding out if he was wet and had therefore been in the river; but he took fright every time she approached, tossed his head and moved away from her, each time moving off a little more. She was not here to chase a horse who would not be caught. She was here to find Anninha. So she gave up trying to secure him and went on looking for a place where she might cross the river. And then she saw her, and a dreadful feeling of disaster overwhelmed her, for Anninha was lying face down among boulders, her limbs spreadeagled, her face against a rock against

which water flowed, receded, then flowed again; and the water flowing past Anninha was tinged with red. There was no movement in her at all, and Venetia stood for a few moments transfixed with horror. Unconscious, she hoped. She did not like to look at the alternative. Please God, she prayed, not dead. Somehow, she had to get her out. But how? She must clamber over the rocks and boulders, and carry or drag her out of the stream. She thought of going back to the castillo for help, but this would waste too much precious time. She ought to have thought of bringing a groom with her, but Venetia was not used to commanding the services of a groom and had not thought of it. Nor had she expected an accident. She took off her soft riding boots, knowing that she was likely to slip in them, and barefooted, began to clamber over the boulders to Anninha. That part was not too difficult, once she had determined she would not be frightened. She turned Anninha over, to keep her face from the water, and saw the ugly wound on her forehead on which the blood was already congealing. She had been knocked unconscious, but Venetia could not detect a heartbeat or feel a flutter of pulse. But the water was making gurgling and rushing noises, and her own racing heartbeat and trembling confused her in trying to detect a pulse-beat in Anninha. She must get her out of the river. She put her arms around Anninha under the armpits and began to drag her over and round boulders and stones; being as careful as she could, slipping dangerously now and then, pausing for breath and to relieve her aching muscles, for Anninha was a dead weight and was in any case heavier than Venetia herself. The few yards seemed an infinity. Once she slipped and sat down so hard on a boulder that it jarred every nerve in her body; several times she almost fell, but at last she had Anninha out on to the bank and laid

her on a patch of dry, hot grass. At least the sun of the early afternoon had enough heat to dry her quickly. Venetia took a deep breath and knelt down at Anninha's side. She must try the kiss of life, she thought; but before "doing so she looked all round her for the slightest sign of human life, or even a building or small house which might shelter it. There was nothing. Whatever was to be done, she must do herself. Then here goes, she thought. She remembered the merriment and the laughter which had accompanied her lessons in how to do it. At the hospital, the nurses had teased her as they taught her: 'You never know,' they had said, 'when it might come in useful.' She had never dreamed of such an occasion as this, but only knew now that she was glad to have the knowledge. She kept at it evenly and persistently, without the slightest response. She almost gave up, tired beyond words, for the struggle to get Anninha out of the river had exhausted her; but she knew that her present tiredness must not be compared with the loss of a young life, and started again. At long last she was rewarded. When Anninha's lungs began at last to work of their own accord, Venetia could hardly believe it; could hardly believe that she had been successful. She waited, watching her, until she felt confident they would not stop again, and then she began to consider the problem of getting her back to the castillo. Anninha's horse had now disappeared. Probably on his own way back to the castle, Venetia thought. So there remained Venetia's own mount, and at the prospect of getting Anninha on to it, her tired muscles protested. But she must try, for she could hardly

leave the unconscious girl here unattended while she rode back for help. How to do it was the problem. She untethered her horse and brought him to where Anninha was lying. He was good and quiet, but she wondered if he would be good and quiet enough to stand still while she tried to get Anninha on to his back. The dead weight of the girl was almost beyond her. She dragged her up against the horse, talking to him gently, quietly, to steady him while her heart filled with despair. He stood like a rock while Venetia heaved Anninha up in her arms against him, while she lowered her grasp from under the arms to round the stomach, still heaving; but he side-stepped in alarm when Anninha slipped through Venetia's straining arms, back to the ground. Venetia was near to tears. It seemed a superhuman effort to start again, but start again she did: first calming the horse, then once more heaving Anninha up against him, lowering her grasp and heaving again. Then she pushed from behind until Anninha was almost lying over him, and then with a final heave got the unconscious girl on to his back. Then she collapsed against the side of the animal, groaning, her lungs heaving, her heart bursting. She took a few moments to revive herself, then went to the river, leading the horse, to plunge her hands into the water and splash her face. Then, still leading the horse, she began to walk him back towards the castillo. She had taken only a few steps when she realised that it would take her hours to get back this way. She put her foot into the stirrup and with every bone in her creaking and protesting, managed to get herself up. Anninha was awkwardly half on and half off the saddle, and it took what seemed another eternity to move her so that Venetia sat in the saddle with Anninha lying over the horse in front of her. She took off her jacket to put it over Anninha's head

to keep her from the heat of the sun; then she took the horse back at a steady walk to the castle, the sun burning her through her blouse, all her senses, stupefied by the effort she had made. They rode through the high archway and pandemonium sprang up around them. At his familiar stables, the horse stood motionless. Gratefully, Venetia leaned across Anninha to pat him and stroke him. The groom and the chauffeur came running. Pascuala, seeing their arrival, flew into the castillo to announce it, and everybody came running: Don Andres followed by the family, Matias by the staff. They stood round, astonished at the spectacle Venetia and Anninha presented. Venetia's clothes had been soaked and were now drying, her hair fell straggling round her shoulders. She was dirty and scratched and looked utterly exhausted with dark rings under her eyes. She took the jacket away from Anninha. 'She is unconscious,' she said. Don Andres took Anninha from the horse's back, holding her in his arms, his face dark and unreadable as he saw the ugly wound on Anninha's head. 'Jose, go for the doctor,' he said, 'and bring him here fast.' He turned to Matias. 'Ring the doctor and tell him Jose is on his way.' He looked at Venetia, then said to the groom: 'Help the senorita down, Cesar.' He waited while the groom did so. 'Gracias, Cesar,' said Venetia, and fell in a faint at his feet. 'Ah, la pobrecita!' sighed Dona Eulalia, and the groom looked to Don Andres for guidance. 'Take the Senorita Anna,' Don Andres said to the groom, who was built like a tree trunk and as strong as a blacksmith. Anninha was

carefully transferred and carefully carried into the castillo and up to her room. Don Andres leaned down, pulled Venetia up, gathered her into his arms and followed. Everybody gathered in the courtyard followed too. In the long corridor, the small crowd divided. The groom carrying Anninha was led upstairs by Dona Eulalia, and followed by Emilia, Ramon, Pascuala and Inez. Matias hovered respectfully about Don Andres. 'I think,' Don Andres said to him, 'that the senorita will recover in a few moments. I will take her into my study.' So Matias preceded him to open the door, waited while Don Andres set Venetia down in one of the chesterfields and put a cushion behind her head, then, at a nod from Don Andres, departed. So that when Venetia opened her eyes, she found herself alone with Don Andres, who immediately presented her with a glass holding brandy. She shook her head wearily. 'Yes, this time you must,' he said in a strong voice, and knelt down beside her, and lifted her with an arm about her shoulders so that she could sip the brandy. 'You look utterly exhausted,' he said, 'and this will do you good.' She leaned against his shoulder, her eyes closing again. She would have been astonished had she seen the look of tenderness in his eyes just then. She obediently sipped the brandy, but all she wanted to do was to fall into a long, long sleep. After several sips, he settled her against the cushion again, and said: 'Stay there, Venetia. Sleep if you want to. I must go and see Anninha.'

He spread a rug over her and left her, and thankfully she closed her eyes, turned her head away from the light and at once fell asleep. The doctor arrived, quite terrified by the speed with which Jose had whisked him up here, and did not like the look of Anninha and wanted another opinion. He would have liked her to go to hospital, but the journey was long and Don Andres was already arranging for nurses and for a specialist to come, and the doctor thankfully saw responsibility being taken out of his hands. It was to the sound of Don Andres' voice on the telephone that Venetia awoke. He was speaking to the specialist then and saying that he had arranged for a day nurse and night nurse who would arrive in the early evening. When he rang off, he came to look at Venetia and she smiled up at him. 'Well, you feel better?' he asked, seeming to loom immensely tall over her. "Yes, thank you.' 'The doctor wants you to stay in bed all day, Venetia.' To tell you the truth, Don Andres, I feel that I could stay there for a week.' 'You poor child! Are you too tired to tell me what happened?' 'No, I don't think so.' She pulled herself up into a sitting position. 'Ooh!' she said, as her aching back asserted itself. He sat on the coffee table which was close to her chesterfield. 'Proceed,' he said, gently.

'Well, I came back from Senora de Mendoza to find a great flap on because Anninha couldn't be found; and when they said her horse was gone, I had an idea which way she might have gone, because, from my window, I had seen her go that way before. I knew there was no road I could follow in a car, so I rode after her; and found her in the river. She had either been thrown while trying to cross on horseback, or had fallen when crossing on foot; but I think she had been thrown because her horse wasn't tethered on this side. And I had the devil's own job to get her out of the river. She was a dead weight and awfully heavy, and it was all beastly boulders just there and I kept slipping about.' She felt she must be black and blue where she had sat down so hard on a boulder, but could hardly tell the senor that. 'She was unconscious and I wasn't sure that she wasn't dead, for the water washed over her face now and then. So I tried the kiss of life and kept it up for what seemed like hours, but it might have been only a matter of minutesI don't know. And at last she started to breathe again. I was so relieved. Only then, of course, I had to get her on to that horse; and if dragging her out of the river was hard, getting her on horseback nearly killed me -Still, it was done in the end, but that explains, senor, why I fainted away like a Victorian maiden. I'm not in the habit of fainting, I assure you.' 'Oh, Venetia, Venetia, how you persist in putting me in the wrong,' he said, but his deep voice was gentle. 'I do?' she asked in surprise. 'How have I done that, Don Andres?' 'By proving that you are right. By showing me that, in time of need, all that independence and resourcefulness is exactly what is wanted. The women of my family all wait for the men to do something...'

'I might have done too, if you had been here, but you weren't.' That didn't make any difference to them. And tell me, how did you know how to do the kiss of life ?' That was my short hospital experience. The nurses made a great joke of it, because the supposition always was that one would be treating a man; but thank God it worked on Anninha.' Thank God for you,' he said seriously. 'She might have died there, Venetia, but for you.' 'So I am not entirely useless?' she said. 'You will be able to find a good word to say for me after all, senor?' 'There aren't enough good words for me to tell you what I feel about you, Venetia.' Her eyes flew up to meet his, holding nothing but astonishment. 'But perhaps I can condense it into three, after all. I love you, Venetia.' She still could not believe he had said it. She must have misheard, because those three words were so vastly improbable. She shook her head, incredulous. 'The only reason,' he went on, 'why I entertained the smallest hope that you might love me too was that you came back when I invited you. Was there any hope, Venetia?' 'Oh, there was indeed,' she said. 'You certainly gave no indication of your feeling, Don Andres.' 'Not? Not when I could hardly keep my arms away from you?' 'That was usually when you were angry with me.'

'No, no. That last time, when we pretended it was a test case, it was sheer self-indulgence for me. Do you mean, Venetia, that you do love me ?' 'I do love you,' she said seriously. 'But you yourself, Don Andres, pointed out all the reasons why it would never do.' 'We can sort them out, I'm sure. If I'm to be truthful, Venetiaand I know your passionate regard for the truth, and was reminded of it when you insisted your relationship with Anninha must be a sincere oneI must admit I struggled against you for a long time. It didn't seem a suitable marriage, whereas one with a woman of my own country, knowing the whole way of life and so on, seemed desirable.' 'Fernanda,' said Venetia quietly. 'It could have been Fernanda. It probably would have been. If I hadn't fallen so in love with you. Fernanda is charming and Fernanda is beautifulbut this is a secret I will share only with you, Venetia, and nobody else Fernanda is not very interesting. And I don't think she loves me. She likes me, we get on very well, it would be an arranged match with benefit to both families; and I'm afraid she will be disappointed. But I hope not heartbroken. SoI struggled against you, darling, and I sent you away.' 'Saying some very unkind things, too.' 'But I couldn't do without you. I had to ask you to come back.' 'But the obstacles remain, Don Andres.' 'Andres,' he said. 'We can dispense with the Don.' 'The obstacles remain, Andres.'

'Nationality. You said yourself, not insurmountable.' 'Religion,' said Venetia. 'England is such a pagan country,' he said. 'Are you a pagan, Venetia?' 'No, but nor am I a fanatic. That needn't be insurmountable either, Andres. Shall I tell you what I feel?' 'Please.' 'Well, in some ways it's like emigrating to another country. If you go, always looking behind, always comparing the new with the old, not really giving yourself, then it will be a failure. If you go, determined to have a real go at it, not always looking back to what went before, you are more likely to succeed. 'I feel that it's the same in marriage, Andres. One has to have a real change of heart, and love should make it possible. Very much a case of: Whither thou goest, I will go. And: Thy people shall be my people. It seems to me there can be no half measures...' He cupped her face in his hands. 'You really mean this, Venetia, don't you?' 'Of course,' she said, looking at him wide-eyed. 'My admiration for you grows every day,' he said. 'And the children?' 'Children?' For a moment she did not understand that he was speaking of his children and hers. Then she lowered her eyes and her curving lashes lay against her smooth cheeks. Not because she

was embarrassed, but because until to-day she had not even thought that he could love her (although she might have dreamed of it), and here he was already discussing their possible children. 'Yes, the children, what of them?' he asked. 'They will be Spanish, Andres, and so will be brought up in the Spanish way and religion, because anything else would be foreign to them, would make strangers of them among their own kind. It should only make life more interesting for them that they have an English mother, and English grandparents whom they can visit, and that they can be bilingual.' 'Darling, how much I love you,' he said. 'But you look desperately tired, and the doctor wants you to stay in bed, and really, my darling child, you do need a bath; so I'm going to take you upstairs now and leave you in peace. But only for today, remember.' 'Heavens, yes,' said Venetia, remembering. 'I must look quite ghastly.' She made to rise and Don Andres helped her to her feet, holding her in his arms, steadying her against him. 'Do you know, Andres, you have overlooked one important thing?' she said to him, smiling into his dark eyes. 'And what is that?' 'You haven't asked me to marry you. I presume that is a necessary preliminary to these charming Spanish children?' He hugged her so tightly that she cried out, her aching back and arms protesting at the treatment. 'Come along,' he said, 'up to bed.' And they went up the stairs and walked the wide corridor and the narrower one and came to her old, iron-clad door, and Don Andres opened it and went inside with her.

Venetia cried out again at the spectacle she saw when she looked into the mirror. 'Oh, Andres, how can you love me when I look like this?' she said, trying to tuck the straggling hair into some kind of order, noticing her pale face and the rings under her eyes, 'especially knowing how lovely Fernanda is.' 'You are quite as lovely,' he said. 'Lovelier than ever todayeven needing a bath. Fernanda tries all the time to please. You, Venetia, have this integrity which is something I adore in you. Now, into bed with you for a long rest.' Her jacket was unfastened and he took it from her shoulders. He began to unfasten the buttons on her blouse, but Venetia stayed his hand by putting hers over it. 'I'm quite sure, Andres, this is something that no well-brought-up Spanish girl would allow,' she said. 'Even permitting you inside her bedroom.' 'You are going to have great difficulty in keeping me out of it in future,' he told her. 'But not this one. You must come and join me in the house, my lovely Venetia.' 'I shall miss this one,' she said, glancing round it. 'You must let me keep it as my special retreat. Then, when I'm angry with you, I can always come back to it.' 'I should come after you immediately, and carry you back. Make no mistake about that,' he said; and his voice and his glance conveyed all the brooding sombreness that she associated with the Spanish character. She felt a shiver along her spine and a quick stirring of excitement, and wanted to fling herself back into his arms; but he was already ringing the bell for one of the maids to run her bath. This was not the time. He took both of her scratched and dirty hands and kissed them, and took her gently into his arms

to kiss her mouth. Then he waited for the maid, and when Pascuala entered, he gave Venetia into her charge and went away. Bathed and refreshed, Venetia slipped between fresh, scented sheets and fell asleep at once. In more ways than one had this been an exhausting day. When she woke, her first thought was of Anninha, and she rang her bell to make enquiries. Teresa appeared with a meal on a tray, and only then did Venetia remember that she had had no lunch. 'The Senorita Anna?' she enquired. 'How is she?' 'I do not know, senorita. The specialist is here and two nurses have been engaged. I will tell the senor that you are awake and he will be able to tell you.' It was Dona Eulalia who came into her room, and not Don Andres whom Venetia was longing to see. She was beginning to wonder if, in her tired and overwrought state, she had imagined everything that had happened between them. Dona Eulalia brought with her an enormous bouquet of flowers which she presented to Venetia with thanks. 'We shall always be so grateful to you, dear Venetia. Our headstrong Anninha would surely have died without your help and your courage, and we shall be eternally in your debt.' 'How is she now, senora?' "Still unconscious, but the specialist is with her and is going to spend the night here to watch over her. And we have the invaluable help of Sister Consuelo and Sister Maria. Everything that can be done, will be done. And you, Venetia?'

'I'm fine, thank you, Dona Eulalia. Just a little tired.' 'Yes. Don Andres has told me all about it. Rest, my child, rest, until you are recovered.' Venetia felt well enough to get up for dinner. Ramon was present with Emilia, also Father Ignatio and the specialist, and Sister Consuelo who was the day nurse. Sister Maria was now on duty and was sitting with her patient. Venetia had been surprised momentarily to find Sister Consuelo wearing her flowing white habit with the thick white cord around the waist; just as later she was surprised to see Sister Maria in a black habit with the white forehead band. Then she thought that nothing could be more natural in Spain: they were sisters of nursing orders. Senora de los Reyes, Don Andres and herself completed the dinner party; and there was no opportunity for any more private conversation with Don Andres that day; especially as the specialist, noticing lines of weariness in her face, suggested that she should go to bed quite early.

Anninha regained consciousness the following day. Besides the wound on her head, she had cracked two ribs and badly sprained an arm. The specialist gave orders that she was to stay in bed; and on his next visit found that she responded to all his tests so well that nobody in the family need feel alarm about her. Memory, eyesight and hearing all seemed unaffected, and he informed her she was a lucky young lady indeed. 'So you may still attend me at my wedding,' said Emilia. It was on the tip of Venetia's tongue to add:

'And perhaps you would like to attend me at mine,' but no announcement had yet been made by Don Andres, and she refrained. He saw the expression in her eyes, and when they left Anninha's room together, he took her with him into his study, where they could always be sure of privacy. 'I don't want to steal Emilia's thunder,' he said. 'I know there will be a great fuss about our marriage, Venetia, and I think we should let Emilia have her hour of glory first.' 'Of course,' she agreed, glad that he had thought of it. 'Also, we either have to go and see your parents, or they have to come here; so that we can all meet and they can approve your choice of a husband.' 'Or was it your choice of a wife?' she asked, with mischief in her voice. 'I hope it was your choice too, Venetia,' he said seriously, and she flung her arms about his neck and kissed him, to leave him in no doubt, and was crushed in his arms until she could scarcely breathe, and kissed with a passion that was a promise of things to come; and they swayed together in a delirium of happiness. When at last, they calmed down, Venetia said: 'I hope I will justify your choice, Andres. I can't promise to change myself...' 'Nor would I want you to.' 'But I will make an effort to be a suitable wife for you.'

'I am already certain that you will be, Venetia. I have watched you with my guests. I have seen Francisco and Gregorio and even our serious Father Ignatio become captive to your formidable charm. What I cannot understand is why I stood out for so long.' 'And Dona Eulalia, Andres. How will she receive me?' 'My dear Venetia, it will be you, as mistress of the castillo, who will receive Dona Eulalia, and I feel I know your character so well now that I have no doubt she will always keep her welcome here. And Anninha. The other girls will soon be married and no longer my responsibility. But we, you and I, darling, will always have our separate apartment which will be private to us. Have no fears about thatI have thought it all out. I have even decided that we can set apart a special place for your family, whenever they care to visit us.' Talking of my family, Andres, let's ask my parents to come here. They would love to see this place.' They will hate to lose you, I'm sure," he said seriously. 'All parents have to let their children go, Andres, but they know they will never lose me. And I'm sure they will be very contented to think of me here, and to know that I'm living happily in my beautiful castle in Spain.'