All I Ask

ALL I ASK Anne Weale

When a car accident followed soon after an unhappy and embittering love-affair, fashion model Francesca Cornel felt thoroughly dispirited, and wanted only to get away from everything. The remotest place she could think of was Andorra, that charming, little-known miniature republic nestling in the heart of the Pyrenees, so she set off for a quiet holiday to recuperate and try to sort out her problems. And up to a point she succeeded. She soon began to feel better, made some charming friends, and was offered an interesting and worth while job. But if she accepted, and stayed on in Andorra, could she adjust herself to the complete change from the gay life she had known? And, in view of her decision to avoid romance for a while, was it the wisest for Francesca to remain in the orbit of the attractive Nicolas de Vega?

CHAPTER ONE STUDYING the pale, expressionless face of the girl who lay in the high white hospital bed - she was gazing out of the window at a cheerless view of sodden grey sky and wet slate rooftops, and seemed unaware of his scrutiny - Charles Darwin was puzzled by her curious lassitude. Six weeks ago she had been flung from an open sports car, and rushed to the hospital, unconscious, and with fractured collarbone and various cuts and grazes. At first it had been thought that she was only severely concussed. But then there had been signs of raised intracranial pressure and Mr. Darwin had had to operate. He remembered his first sight of her. She had been lying on a trolley in the anaesthetic room. Mr. Darwin had already dealt with a long and tiring list, and his first glance had been cursory. Then he had looked again, and realised that the patient was one of the most beautiful girls he had ever seen. Next day, all the popular national newspapers had carried pictures of her, and of the driver of the sports car. Mr. Darwin read The Times, and would not have seen the accounts of the accident and its victims if they had not been thrust under his nose by his seventeen-year-old daughter, Carola. Carola was still at school, but she would be leaving at the end of the summer. And it was her burning ambition - and that of most of her contemporaries, her father gathered - to become a fashion model. Apparently the girl on whom he had operated was one of her idols. Because this girl was a top-flight photographic model. Her name was Francesca Cornel and she was twenty- two years old. But, watching her now, as she stared listlessly at the rain streaking the window panes, Mr. Darwin thought that, without any make-up on her

face and with her pale silky hair tied back with a yellow ribbon, she looked several years younger. "I expect you're looking forward to getting out of here," he said abruptly. His tone was always slightly brusque, but there was a great deal of kindness and humour in the eyes under the bushy, grizzled brows. Francesca turned her head, and it was clear that her thoughts had been far away, that she had forgotten he was with her. "Oh... yes," she said politely. "What are your plans?" Mr. Darwin asked, determined to get at the root of her strange apathy. Physically, she had made an excellent recovery. But the nursing staff reported that she spent hour after hour staring blankly in front of her and that, at night, she sometimes cried in her sleep. Mr. Darwin also knew that she had refused to see the young man who had been driving the sports car, and had asked for the flowers he sent her - extravagant baskets of carnations and white roses - to be given to patients in the main wards. "Rail's?" she repeated vaguely. "I don't know. I haven't planned anything yet." "You must certainly have a holiday before you attempt to resume your job," the surgeon said definitely. "You want to build yourself up ... eat well ..put on some weight. This is no time for dieting, you know." "I've never had to diet. I have a very good appetite," she told him gravely. And she was not a thin girl. There were no ugly salt-cellars above her collarbones, no sharply defined joints at her wrists and elbows. She was naturally slender, with an efficient metabolism which

allowed her to eat what she pleased without spoiling her slim, graceful figure. "I must tell that to my daughter. She's trying to starve off her puppy-fat. She's very keen to take up modelling," Mr. Darwin explained. "However, I imagine she will find that the work is considerably less... er... glamorous than she imagines." "Yes," Francesca said flatly, and it was evident that her career was not a topic which she wished to' discuss. Mr. Darwin tried another tack. He knew that her parents were dead, and that her next-of-kin was a married brother, a provincial G.P., who had visited her twice after the operation. "Perhaps it would be a good idea to stay with your brother and his family for a week or two," he suggested. "You may feel quite fit again, but you will find that you tire very quickly for a time. You will have to take things easily for some weds yet. Where does your brother practise?" "In Walsall - but I can't impose on Bill and Nora," she said, frowning. "Why not?" Mr. Darwin asked bluntly. "I imagine they would be delighted to have you." "Oh, yes, they have already offered - but it wouldn't be fair," she said decidedly. "Bill is fearfully overworked, and Nora has a toddler and twin babies on her hands. They haven't the time or room to cope with me." "Well, perhaps Walsall isn't the best place to spend a convalescence," Mr. Darwin said dryly. "But neither is London. You really ought to get away somewhere."

Francesca looked towards the window again. It was early June, but the weather during the past ten days had been more like that of an inclement March. Chill winds alternated with slow depressing drizzle. "It would be nice to feel the sun," she murmured, half to herself. "Of course the ideal place for a recuperative holiday is where my wife and I spent our holiday last year ... up in Andorra," Mr. Darwin remarked. To his surprise, at the mention of Andorra a flicker of interest kindled in her extraordinary blue eyes. They were extraordinary because they were such a deep vivid blue, not the pale china-blue usually associated with her Nordic- fair colouring. "You've been to Andorra?" the surgeon asked, intrigued that his chance remark should have succeeded in rousing her from her apathy. "Most people seem never to have heard of the place," he added. She shook her head. "No, I haven't been there. But my father was there during the war. He always intended to go back one day. He - he died last autumn." Her mouth quivered slightly and she looked down at the neatly folded sheet. "What was he doing in Andorra?" Mr. Darwin asked. He had not known that she had lost her father so recently, and he wondered if it was grief which made her seem in such low spirits. But when she answered his question, her voice was steady and she did not sound as if talking about her father gave her pain - rather the reverse. "He was in the R.A.F. - he was a pilot," she said, with a note of pride in her tone. "He and his crew had to bale out over France, but they weren't taken prisoner. The Maquis got them before the Germans did,

and helped them to escape through the Pyrenees. Father said they had a fearful time getting up into the mountains. There was deep snow everywhere, and it -was bitterly cold. They never thought they'd make it. They were all so knocked up that, once they got over the pass, they had to rest for nearly a week before they could go on. An Andorran farmer hid them in his bam. Father said that after that terrible night in the snows they woke up to find the sun shining. He said the valley looked so beautiful and peaceful, it was like a kind of Shangri-La. The war seemed a million miles away." She stopped short, flushing a little, as if embarrassed by her sudden outburst of loquacity. "Yes, it is still like that," Mr. Darwin said quickly, anxious to hold her interest, to keep her from retreating behind the mask of passivity again. "My wife said the very same thing the day we arrived. The road from the French frontier is rather hair-raising ... a false move and one would shoot straight over a precipice. And of course the altitude makes it a pretty cold sun, even in summer. But when you reach the other end of the pass and see the valley spread out below you, it's like entering another world. We had a wonderful time there ... our best holiday in years." She was silent for some moments, and he sensed that she was torn between curiosity and an unwillingness to relinquish her protective reserve. "Do many people go there?" she asked, in a reluctant tone. "They are building up their tourist trade. There were quite a number of visitors in Les Escaldes, which is the one largish town. We only spent a couple of nights there, on our way in and out. The rest of the time we stayed in Valyos, one of the villages up on the mountainside. The accommodation was a little primitive, but they made us very welcome, and the food was excellent. I spent most of my .time fishing, and my

wife took her painting gear. It was a very quiet holiday, of course there are no night clubs or anything of that kind - but that was what we wanted." "Mr. Darwin, would you give me the address of this place where you stayed?" Francesca asked suddenly. He was somewhat taken aback. "Oh, I don't think you should consider going as far as Andorra just yet. It's a very tiring journey," he said dubiously. "I could fly most of the way, couldn't I? I have some money saved up. I can afford it." "Yes, you could fly as far as Toulouse, I believe. But I think you would be wiser to think in terms of the south coast, or. perhaps the Channel Islands," he advised. "No doubt the weather will improve soon. We're certainly due for a spell of sunshine" - with a glance at the window, and a wry chuckle. "It may rain all summer," she said. "I would like to go to Andorra. Oh, not at once" - as he frowned and began to shake his head - "but when I'm stronger. Perhaps next month. Please, Mr. Darwin.'' He hesitated, then felt in his pocket for a notebook and flicked through the pages. "Very well, I'll give you the address of the farm. But there can be no question of your travelling such a distance for several weeks yet," he warned her firmly. Francesca watched him scribble the address on the back of an envelope. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you for everything. I -1 know you saved my life." "Oh, hardly that," he said gruffly. "Perhaps, if my daughter is still set on following in your footsteps when she leaves school, you might be

good enough to give her a few tips on the best way to go about it. Frankly, I should be glad to see her dissuaded from the idea. I've no doubt it's an excellent career for the few outstanding people like yourself, but it appears to be a very overcrowded profession nowadays." "Yes, it is. But I'd be glad to help your daughter, if I can," Francesca said sincerely. After Mr. Darwin had left her, Francesca read the address he had written on the envelope and thought about Andorra, and how the surgeon had described it as "another world." "Father escaped to Andorra. Perhaps it would be an escape for me, too," she thought, with a sigh. And then the thought of what she "Wanted to escape made her wince and close her eyes, as if beset by a sudden spasm of pain.

Susan Bell was waiting to take care of her when she was discharged from the hospital the following day. "How do you feel, pet?" Susan asked anxiously, when they were in a taxi, returning to the flat in Chelsea which they had shared for the past eight months. Susan was also a model; a gay freckled redhead who, with her turned-up nose and impudent grin, looked like an engagingly mischievous teenager. In fact, she was nearly twenty-one, but she specialised in teenage fashions and was constantly bemoaning the fact that, with her nose and her freckles, she would never be able to graduate to more sophisticated styles.

"I feel fine," Francesca said brightly and untruthfully. The muscles of her legs seemed to have wasted away, and the slightest exertion made her breathless and limp. As she looked out of the window of the taxi at the stream of traffic, the crowded pavements outside the big department stores, the queues" at bus-stops, everything seemed strange and - absurdly - rather frightening.. It seemed far longer than six weeks since she had last seen these noisy, bustling streets. She felt like a nun who had rashly renounced her vows and, after years in the safe enclosed world of the convent, found herself adrift in an alien environment. "Well, I don't know what's come over me, but I've suddenly developed a passion for cooking. So I'm going to feed you up and make you take care of yourself," Susan told her firmly. "How do you fancy fricandelles for supper tonight?" "What are they?" Francesca asked cautiously. Susan grinned. "Glorified rissoles - but much better than boiled cod and semolina, or whatever they fed you on in hospital." "Actually the food wasn't at all bad," said Francesca, wishing she was back in the quiet side-ward. But when they were back at the flat, and Susan had made her lie down on the couch and prepared a pot of tea and some thick, lavishly buttered toast, she began to feel a little more cheerful. "Thank goodness you're back. I was getting pretty cheesed off with living alone," Susan said presently, lounging in the armchair on the other side of the electric fire.

Francesca ate the last piece of toast and .wiped her buttery fingers on a handkerchief. "I'm afraid I won't be back for long, Sue. I'm supposed to have a holiday before I start working again." "Yes, you need one. You still took awfully pinched," her friend agreed. "Look, why don't you stay at the farm for a week or two? As a matter of fact Mummy suggested it last time I went home. She would love to put you up - she misses having someone to fuss over - and I could come down most weekends. Fresh air and home cooking are just what you need to brace you up, sweetie. And if the weather bucks up, the sea is only fifteen miles away." . "No, it's terribly kind of your mother to think of it, but I've already decided where I'm going," she said, after a pause. "I want to go to Andorra." Susan looked blank. "Where on earth is Andorra?" "It's a tiny little country - a republic, I think - right up in the eastern Pyrenees, between France and Spain." "But that's miles away. How on earth are you going get there without a car? I never heard of such a mad idea," Susan protested, in a shocked voice. "I can fly most of the way," Francesca said calmly. "It may take a couple of weeks to fix the details, but I've quite made up my mind, Sue. I want to get right away from— everything." "I bet when they told you at the hospital to have a holiday, they didn't mean trekking half across Europe," Susan said crisply. "Oh, Fran, be sensible. You aren't fit to go so far - not on your own. Why Andorra, of all places? It sounds like the back of beyond to me."

"That's why I want to go there," Francesca said flatly. "Mr. Darwin the surgeon who did my op - has given the the address of a farm where he and his wife stayed last year. I'm going to write to them tonight." Susan poured herself another cup of tea and lit a cigarette. She could see from Francesca's expression that her friend was obstinately determined to go through with this crazy scheme, and she did not want them to have an argument and perhaps a row about it. Besides, although the older girl had never discussed the events leading up to the accident, Susan had a shrewd idea why Francesca wanted to get away from "everything," as she put it. At this point, the telephone rang and Susan had to haul herself out of the chair and go over to the window-seat to answer it. "Susan Bell speaking. Oh, hello. Hang on a minute, will you? It's Johnny," she whispered to Francesca, her hand covering the mouthpiece. "Tell him I'm in bed," Francesca said tonelessly. Susan frowned slightly, then shrugged. "Sorry, Johnny. I'd left a tap running," she said into the telephone, to explain the interval. "Yes, Francesca came home today, but I've packed her off to bed. She'll have to take life very quietly for a day or two. What? Well ... I don't know. Look, ring back tomorrow, will you. I can't stop to chat now. I'm cooking. Yes, do that, Goodbye." After she had replaced the receiver, she did not make any comment about the call but went through to the bedroom to change her clothes. It was not until they were having supper - the fricandelles with spaghetti and onion sauce - that she said bluntly, "Look, Fran, you can't avoid Johnny for ever. He's been plaguing the life out of me all

the time you've been in hospital. Now that you're out, he'll probably camp on our doorstep. Why not see him and get it over?" Francesca stabbed at the slippery spaghetti and wound the strands on her fork. "What a nuisance he is!" she said irritably. "Why must he keep badgering us ? " Susan sipped some of the Chianti she had bought to celebrate her friend's homecoming. "Aren't you being a little unfair to Mm?" she suggested mildly. "He thinks you blame him for the accident, even though it wasn't his fault there was a crash. I think he's a little in love with you, Fran." "In love? Johnny?" Francesca gave a short brittle laugh. "You're dotty, Sue. With Johnny life is strictly for kicks. He's the original Good Time Boy. Love is outside his orbit." "Maybe - maybe not." Susan knew she was treading on dangerous ground. "But love hits everyone eventually," she added warily. "Not the Johnny Sarnleys," Francesca said knowledgeably. "Johnny chooses his girl-friends the same way he picks a new car - for showing-off purposes. With a ratio of three girls to each car," she added dryly. "He bought a new car after the last one was smashed up, but he doesn't seem to have found a new girl yet," Susan pointed out. "Well, if he is losing his grip, that's all the more reason for me to keep out of his way," Francesca said stubbornly. After supper, she found a pad of airmail paper and a French dictionary, and went to bed to compose a letter to Senora Roja at the farm at Valyos.

Next morning, before she went to the hairdresser for her bi-weekly appointment, Susan brought Francesca a breakfast tray in bed. "Now swear you'll take it easy," she insisted, pulling on her coat. "There are no chores to do, and I've put a casserole in the oven which should be ready about twelve. I'll be back around three. Perhaps, if you feel like it, we might go to the pictures this evening." After she had gone, Francesca ate the finnan haddock and poached egg which her flat-mate had cooked for her, and thought that, basically, Sue was very like her homely domesticated mother. Once she had had her fill of modelling and London, she would be perfectly content to settle down - probably with one of the boys she had grown up with and devote herself to caring for her husband and children. About ten o'clock, after she had had a bath and put on slacks and a Shetland sweater, Francesca added a raincoat and went out. She went first to the local lending library, where she was lucky enough to find a Spanish guide book with a section on Andorra. Then she caught a bus to the nearest travel agency and made enquiries about the journey. By the time she had bought two pairs of tights, some fruit and a cake for tea, she was beginning to feel exhausted. The early drizzle had turned to heavy rain, so she flagged a taxi to take her home. When the taxi pulled up outside the flat, she noticed a low-slung pale blue coupe parked at the kerb. She was tempted to tell the cabby to drive her back to Knights- bridge, to the salad bar where Susan would probably be having lunch. But then she remembered the casserole in the oven, and she knew that she had to have a rest or she would collapse. So she paid off the taxi, and ducked through the downpour to the main door.

The flat was on the top floor, up three flights of stairs, By the time she reached the second landing, she was panting as if she had been running. As she had feared, Johnny Sarnley was waiting for her on the top landing. "I didn't know whether you were out, or refusing to answer the door. Francesca, I must talk to you," he said urgently. She handed him her parcels, unlocked the door of the flat and walked into the sitting room. Then she switched on the fire, stripped off her soaked raincoat and went through to the kitchenette to look at the casserole. / Johnny was hovering uncertainly in the doorway when she returned to the sitting room. He was a tall, slim, good- looking young man of about twenty-eight. His father was a rich industrialist, and, long before she had met Johnny at a cocktail party, Francesca had seen his name in the gossip columns, and pictures of him in the society magazines. Whether at a polo match, Silverstone or a coming-out dance, Johnny always had had a pretty girl with him. At the moment, however, he seemed to have lost some of his man-about-town air. It was the first time she had ever seen him look unsure of himself. "Sit down," she said politely. "Would you like a drink?" He shook his head, put her parcels on a chair and took off his coat. Francesca took a cigarette from the box on the coffee table and gestured for him to help himself. She rarely smoked, but this was one of the times when she needed something to occupy her hands.

"Francesca, why wouldn't you let me see you in hospital? Why did you write that note giving me the brush- off?" Johnny asked rapidly, as he lit the cigarette for her. She noticed that his hand was not quite steady. He had escaped from the car smash with bruises and a cut forehead, but he did not look well. He had lost the tan from his skiing holiday at Gstaad shortly before the accident, and his face was much thinner, almost gaunt. "I'm sorry if I offended you, Johnny, but I thought it was for the best," she said quietly. "For the best? What do you mean?" he asked, looking both bewildered and angry. "Oh, Johnny, don't be cross. Perhaps I should have seen you at the hospital, but I felt so ghastly for the first week or two, and I thought my letter would explain... the way I felt." He moved to put an ash-tray on the arm of her chair. "It was my fault you were hint ... that you might have died," he said, in a low voice. "I suppose I deserve you to hate the sight of me, but -" "Oh, rubbish! It wasn't your fault at all," Francesca said sharply. "The other man was drunk. It was his fault we crashed. If you weren't such a good driver, we would both have been killed." "I ought to have insisted you wore your safety belt. If you hadn't been thrown out on to the road -" "Oh, please... you must stop blaming yourself. I don't. Anyway, it's all over now, and I'm well again. Forget it, Johnny," she begged him. "I can't forget it," he said sombrely. "It seemed hours before the ambulance came, and you lay there so deathly white..." He stopped, passing his hand over his eyes as if he were trying to wipe out a mental

picture of the moonlit road and two wrecked cars. "I'm sorry," he said huskily, after a moment. "As you say, it's all over now, thank God." "Let's both have a drink. I think there's some whisky in the cupboard. I'll have a sherry," Francesca said evenly. Johnny had changed, she thought, watching him as he found the bottles and two glasses. It had not occurred to her before, but now she wondered if the accident had had as profound an effect on him as it had on her. On impulse, she said, "Can you stay to lunch? It's all ready in the oven." "Do you really want me to stay?" he asked dubiously. She didn't. Her head had started to ache and what she wanted was not a difficult tete-a-tete with Johnny, but to take some aspirins and lie down on her bed and try to sleep. But she said, "Why not ? Come on: I'm hungry." They ate in the kitchen, talking about other people, not themselves, while they ate Susan's rich veal casserole and some tinned fruit and cream. Johnny insisted on making the coffee while Francesca rested on the sofa. The meal had made her feel better. She felt braced to cope with him now. "You said your letter explained everything," he said, when he was sitting beside her. "I couldn't make head or tail of it, darling." He had often called her darling before. It had not meant anything. Words like darling, sweetie, angel were merely the idiom of the world

in which he moved. Even "I adore you" or "I'm crazy about you" had no special significance. But now, she sensed, he used the endearment deliberately, and with meaning. "Well, perhaps I was still a little addled when I wrote it," she said lightly. "One of the reasons I didn't feel madly sociable was that they'd shaved off half my hair. I wasn't exactly at my best with a head like a hard-boiled egg." "And the other reasons ? " Johnny asked, watching her."It's not easy to explain the other reasons. After the operation - when my head had stopped aching - I had plenty of time to think things over, Johnny. Suddenly it all seemed so ... so futile. The way we'd been gadding about, enjoying ourselves, I mean. I found I didn't want that kind of life any more. I'd had enough. So" - spreading both hands - "I wrote and said so. I -1 thought perhaps you might feel under some kind of obligation to me, at least as long as I was in hospital. I wanted you to feel free to... carry on." "To find another girl - is that what you mean ?" "Yes, to find another girl." He leaned forward, his forearms resting on his knees, his face averted. "But you were never really my girl at all, were you, Francesca?" he said, in an odd tone. "There was never anything serious between us. It was just a light- hearted game we played. Fun while it lasted, and no hard feelings if it eventually came to an end." "That's right," she said steadily.

He sprang to his feet and stood glaring down at her, his hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets, his handsome face hard with suppressed fury. "You must know damn well it's not right," he burst out. "Oh, it may have begun like that - but it changed, you know it changed." So Susan had been right, she thought heavily. He was - or imagined he was - in love with her. "You may have changed, Johnny. I didn't," she said quietly. The anger died out of his face, and he went down on his heels by the sofa and caught both her hands. "Are you sure of that, Francesca? Are you sure? Oh, darling, just because it began as a ... casual thing, it doesn't have to end like this. In fact, for me, even at the beginning it was never quite the same as all the other times. I knew you were different from the first." "Did you?" she asked dryly, remembering the predatory gleam in his eyes when they had first met, and how she had had to free herself from an over-ardent embrace when he drove her home after the party. A few months earlier, she would have dismissed him from her mind as an attractive but unscrupulous wolf. But at the time they met, she had been in the mood to grasp at any distraction - and, whatever else he was, Johnny Sarnley was certainly extremely distracting. He must have read the first part of her thoughts as he flushed and said gruffly, "I know I've been a pretty rotten type in my time, but that's all changed now. I swear it. I love you, Francesca. I want to marry you." "Oh, Johnny, you may think so now, but -" "I know it. I won't change my mind." Before she could evade him, he drew her close and kissed her.

He had kissed her many times before and usually she had laughed and eluded him, because she had made it clear from the first that she was prepared to be a gay companion but nothing more. Even in the desperate mood which had prompted her to see him a second time, she had never reached the point of being tempted to dispel her private misery with a casual affair. But there had been one or two occasions when he had kissed her more passionately and she had tried vainly to feel some answering excitement. She had never succeeded. Now she submitted, but did not respond. After a moment he let her go again. "What is it? What's wrong? You must care for me a little/' he said hoarsely. "I do, Johnny. I do." She got up from the sofa and moved restlessly about the small comfortable room. "I'm very fond of you," she said awkwardly. "Then why write that it would be better if we didn't see each other any more?" She stopped by the bookcase and looked at her reflection in the little gilded mirror which she had bought in a King's Road junk shop when she and Susan first set up flat together, after her father died. It was the first time Johnny had seen her without make-up, she realised, but he had not appeared to notice any difference. Perhaps he really did love her. "I didn't know how you felt about me then," she said, touching Sue's collection of china animals on top of the bookcase. "Well, now that you do, it makes even less sense," he answered reasonably. "At least give me a chance, Francesca. You don't have to commit yourself, darling. Look, you need to convalesce. Why not

come down to my people's place for a week or two? I'll teach you to ride and sail, and we can-" "No, Johnny, I can't. It wouldn't be fair. Besides, I've already arranged a holiday ... with my brother," she added untruthfully. If she had told him she was going to Andorra, he would be as shocked as Sue had been and raise even stronger objections - perhaps plead to go with her. ^ "Oh, I see," he said, looking disappointed. "Well, I can run over and see you there, can't I? Why not let me take you? It would be less tiring than a train journey. Unless you don't fancy driving now." "I don't think I'm nervous of driving, but I would rather go by train. Johnny dear, I don't want to hurt you, but you must try to understand. I'm not in love with you. If we go on seeing each other, it will only make it worse for you." He came up behind her and rested his hands on her shoulders, looking in the mirror over her head. He also had fair hair and blue eyes. They could have been taken for brother and sister. "I'm willing to risk that," he said softly. "Look, you're still pretty run down ... not yourself. When you're stronger you may see things differently. You go off and have a quiet holiday, and we'll talk about this again when you come back. All right?" It was not all right, but Francesca was too tired to argue any more. Perhaps, when she came back from her holiday, Johnny would also see things differently. She still could not see any reason why, of all the dozens of girls he had escorted over the past few years, he should finally fall for her. "Very well," she said wearily. "I'll let you know when I get back. But don't build up any hopes, Johnny."

He turned her round to face him and kissed her knuckles. "We're right for each other, Francesca. I know we are," he said confidently.

Twelve days later, late in the afternoon, Susan saw Francesca off at London Airport. "I still think you're mad," she said worriedly, as they waited in the departure lounge for the flight to Paris to be called. "For Pete's sake send me a We as soon as you arrive. I shall be worried stiff until I know you've got there all in one piece." "Oh, Sue, don't fuss. Anyone would think I was a raw schoolgirl and had never been abroad before," Francesca said, amused. Ever since her discharge from hospital, Susan had been making her drink an extra pint of milk a day, and had bought her several bottles of vitamin pills and hustled her off to bed on the stroke of ten. But, in spite of her careful supervision, Francesca still looked noticeably wan and strained. "Bless you, Sue. You've been a darling to me," she said warmly, in case her friend should think she did not appreciate her kindness. "I don't know what I should have done if I'd had to go back to a solitary bed-sitter and a gas- ring, But you needn't worry about me now. I'm practically back to normal. And when I get back from Andorra, bursting with health and vitality, I'll do all the housework for a month to make it up to you. That's a promise." "You will come home if you don't like it there? You won't stick it out from sheer pigheadedness?" Susan insisted.

"I'm going to enjoy every minute. You ought to be envious. This time tomorrow I shall be basking in the sun, and taking deep breaths of invigorating mountain air." "Yes, but a month is a long time to be alone in a foreign country where hardly anyone speaks English," Susan pointed out dubiously. "What language do they speak?" "Catalan mostly - but they nearly all have some French and Spanish as well. Admittedly my French is pretty basic, but it's good enough to get me by - I think! And that phrase book I bought should help. Imagine going abroad without knowing how to say 'The sheets are not properly aired,' or 'There is a handkerchief missing from my laundry.'" Francesca smiled flippantly. Susan smiled, but her concern went too deep to be dispelled for more than a moment. And, to tell the truth, Francesca was not as sanguine as she pretended. Now that she had readied the point of departure, she was beginning to wonder if her friend was right in thinking it a mad undertaking. "Well, it's too late to change my mind now," she thought, bracing herself against a mounting sense of last- moment panic. "Now, don't forget, you've sworn not to tell anyone where I am especially not Johnny, however hard he tries to worm it out of you," she reminded Susan firmly. A moment later her flight number was called over the Tannoy. "Goodbye, Sue. Don't worry. I'll wire you as soon as I arrive, and when I've got my bearings I'll write and tell you all about it " "Goodbye. Take care of yourself. Don't overdo it."

The two girls hugged each other affectionately, and then Francesca gathered up her belongings and followed her fellow passengers towards the exit. In the plane, she was seated next to a middle-aged English businessman who eyed her long beautiful legs, sniffed appreciatively at the faint aura of Balmain's Jolie Madame and tried the usual conversational gambits. Francesca answered his remarks with cold civility, refused his offer of a cigarette and opened a magazine. Later, however, she regretted snubbing him so pointedly. Talking to someone - even a balding Don Juan - would have kept her mind off that last flight to Malta. Try as she would to concentrate on an article on interior decoration, she found her thoughts straying back to those five October days in Malta which she so desperately wanted to forget. Five fleeting days in a fool's paradise ... and then endless dragging weeks in a private hell. Remembering that time of despair and bitterness, she shivered and closed her eyes. What a fool she had been - what a guileless, unsuspecting fool. Francesca's career as a model had not been without reverses. She had been fortunate in having her father to fall back on during the first months when bookings -had been few and far between, and there had been no reason to suppose that she would ever reach the topmost pinnacles of her profession. Then, one day about two years ago, she had been sent to pose as a bridesmaid for a "Spring Bride" picture to be taken by Paul Landon. It had been an exciting event for her because Paul Landon was one of the leading fashion photographers and she was interested to see how he worked. The "bride" had been a very successful model who had since married and retired. Francesca and another girl had been placed well in the background, and Francesca had been asked to stand with her back to the camera to show off the

bustle effect on her organdie skirt. But although the picture, which did not appear until several weeks later, evoked a good deal of raillery from her father and friends, that day was the turning point of her career. The following week, her agent told her that Paul Landon wanted to use her for a "Girl About Town" feature, and this time she was photographed the right way round and it was her "escort" - a good-looking medical student supplementing his grant by some part-time modelling - who had to lurk in the background. At first, Francesca secretly disliked Paul Landon. He was an exacting taskmaster, ruthlessly perfectionist, and with, a curt, almost boorish manner which did nothing to dispel beginner's nerves. During the first decisive assignment he was so witheringly critical of everything about her - her, make-up, her hair, the technique she had learned at the model school - that she wondered why he had booked her. Later, she learned that he had been deliberately testing her toughness. If she had wilted under his sarcasm, or dissolved into tears - as several other girls had done - he would have lost interest in her. He had no patience with novices who thought that a pretty face and the right measurements were the keys to success. He looked for style and stamina. Francesca had the necessary stamina, and the style, too - but it had not been apparent until Paul had helped her to develop it. It had been he who had taught her to put violet eyeshadow on her cheeks, which looked grotesque in the changing room mirror but, in photogravure, enhanced the delicate modelling of her high cheekbones. She had always tried to tone down the slight cleft in her chin, to disguise the natural quirk on the left side of her mouth. Paul made her emphasise these features. "Seeing you in the glossies, one would think you were the haughtiest so-and-so imaginable," Sue had said once, flipping through a fashion magazine and coming across a picture of her friend reclining in the

back of a Rolls- Royce in Tourmaline mink and a blaze of Kutchinsky diamonds. "Look at this - hauteur isn't the word for it! I wish I could look so superbly snooty." Sometimes, after she had shot to the top flight of models, Francesca had had a feeling she had left her real self behind somewhere, that the girl she had become was a creature of artifice, created by Paul and so strangely bound to him - like Trilby to Svengali. Gradually, almost unnoticeably, their professional relationship had become more and more personal. until - while they were both on a special assignment in Malta - Paul had told her one night that he was crazy about her. For twenty-four hours Francesca had been in heaven. But the next day, while she was blissfully planning their future, he had revealed, quite casually, that he was married. "I thought you knew - most people do," he had said nonchalantly. "Sylvie was one of my first models. We broke up about a year ago." Francesca had been stunned. "Of course I didn't know, Paul. If I had ... I would never have fallen in love with you." He had laughed at her. "You are still incredibly naive in some ways, aren't you, Francesca?" he had said teasingly. "Don't look so tragic, darling. You haven't broken up a happy home, you know." "But you're still married," she had answered despairingly. "So what?" Paul had shrugged. Then, smiling, but with a trace of impatience, he had said, "Darling, you aren't going to be absurdly Victorian about this, are you? After all, it's not as if we lived in some provincial backwater and were both simple domestic types with a strong urge to propagate the species. Don't tell me you have a secret yen to play 'the little woman' ? "

"Are you suggesting we should ... live together?" she had asked frozenly. Paul had been angry with her then. "Oh, my God, must you be so damnably bourgeoise about it?" he had sneered acidly. "Grow up, Francesca. Life isn't a fairy-tale, you know. We're two adult sophisticated people, not…" "Please, Paul, don't go on." She could not bear to listen to all the glib, hackneyed reasons which men like Paul always produce as inducements to have an affair with them. Men like Paul... suddenly she had seen him as he really was. A brilliant photographer, a man who - when he chose - could be dangerously charming. But a man who was essentially an egoist; whose charm was spurious, and whose , true nature was reflected in his spasms of caustic unkind- ness. And, in a final sickening flash of disenchantment, she had known that, even if he had been free to do so, he would not have asked her to marry him. Paul must have recognised the bleak look of disillusionment on her face, and he had made a skilful attempt to recoup his ineptness. Finally, he had lost his temper. The day, which had begun for Francesca in a mood of the most exalted happiness, had ended with a bitterly vituperative quarrel. "Aren't you feeling well, Miss Cornel? Can I get you a drink... some aspirins ?" Francesca opened her eyes to find that her flight companion had gone to the men's room, and the air stewardess was bending across his seat with an expression of anxious enquiry on her pretty face.

"Oh ... I have a slight headache. It's nothing serious," Francesca said, flushing as she realised she had been gripping the armrests and bracing her whole body like some apprehensive dental patient. She forced herself to relax and smile. "If I could have a cup of coffee..." she began diffidently. The stewardess disappeared towards the galley, and then the man who had the next seat returned. He looked rather taken aback when Francesca smiled at him and started a conversation. But, in spite of her earlier snub, he responded to her overtures, and she soon decided she had misjudged him. He made no attempt to flirt with her, but told her that he was also flying to Toulouse on his way to the old walled city of Carcassonne. He was an importer of choice confectionery and delicatessen and there was a factory in Carcassonne which produced particularly succulent cocktail cherries. The aircraft touched down at Toulouse soon after eight o'clock, and Mr. Wallace insisted on escorting her to her hotel where he thanked her for the pleasure of her company and they parted very cordially, Francesca regretting her initial chilliness to him. Without bothering to have an evening meal, she took a bath and went to bed. Early next morning, she had petit dejeuner on a tray in her room - but she ate only one of the croissants with two cups of black coffee. Then she sent her promised telegram to Susan and caught a train to l'Hospitalet where a bus would take her over the frontier into Andorra. Although it had been a warm morning in Toulouse, as the bus chugged slowly up the steep winding road to the Porte d'Envalira, the air grew steadily cooler. Francesca shivered inside her light wool travelling coat, and averted her eyes from the precipice which now edged the twisting roadway.

At last they' reached the summit of the pass, and the road began to descend again. Francesca hoped the brakes had been checked recently, for every few yards there was a blind hairpin bend and she had an alarming vision of what would happen if the brakes should fail on this stretch. But, as they rounded a particularly dangerous corner, she had her first glimpse of Andorra and, forgetting her fears, drew in a quick breath of pleasurable surprise. Far below them, like some secret kingdom in a legend, lay a sheltered sunlit valley. Clusters of grey stone houses nestled below the neatly terraced foothills, or seemed to cling precariously to the higher slopes of the mountains. Cattle - looking smaller than toy farm animals - grazed in lush, dry-walled pastures. And, as the bus rounded another bend in the road, a sparkling torrent of water came rushing down between giant boulders and fell in a series of glistening green waterfalls. By the time the bus reached the little town of Les Escaldes, Francesca had decided that she must have something to eat before she set about finding a taxi to take her to the village of Valyos. As she stepped down from the bus, she realised that it was much hotter here than it had been in Toulouse a few hours ago. She took off her coat, tipped the driver for handing down her one large suitcase, and set out to find a hotel or cafe. But she had only walked a few yards when she had to stop and look in her bag for sun-glasses. The light was dazzlingly bright. Then, as she put the glasses on and bent to pick up her case, she staggered, clutched the wall for support, and fought against the whirlpool-sensation of dizziness.

"I mustn't pass out - not here," she thought dimly. A hand gripped her arm and held her upright. A voice said, in English, "Come with me. I will look after you." The next thing she knew was that she was in some cool dim place, out of the sun, and sitting on a chair with her head bent forward to touch her knees. She stayed like that, bent double, until the hands on her shoulders pulled her gently upright and she found that she no longer felt faint, but only dazed and a little bit sick. When she opened her eyes, she found she was in a small drapery store with a curtain made from long strands of glass beads across the doorway. There were bolts of cloth on the shelves behind the counter. A portable electric fan was blowing eddies of cool air towards her. A young girl, dark and Spanish-looking, came out of a room behind the shop and handed her a glass of water. "Thank you," Francesca said huskily. She would never have believed a glass of water could taste so good, so refreshing. It was not until §he had drunk the whole glassful and expelled a long sigh of relief that she was sufficiently clearheaded to realise that someone's hand was still resting on her shoulder. At the same moment, there was a movement behind her and a man stepped forward and took the empty glass from her hand. He returned it to the girl, said something in what sounded like Spanish, and looked down into Francesca's upturned face. "Are you feeling better now?" he asked.

For several seconds Francesca could only stare at him in astonishment. Then she gathered her wits and said, "Oh ... yes, much better, thank you. I - I'm sorry to be such a nuisance. It was so hot and I -" "Don't talk ... rest. There is no hurry," he cut in quietly. "Would you like a cigarette?" She shook her head. "No, thank you. But if I could have another glass of water..." "With pleasure, but I think we can offer you something better than water." And he turned to the girl and gave some brief instruction. She nodded, smiled at Francesca, and disappeared into the back premises. "Do you mind if I smoke?" the man asked politely. "No, of course not. Please do." He moved across to the other side of the shop, leaned against the high wooden counter and took a small metal box from the pocket of his shirt. There was tobacco in it and papers. With practised deftness, he rolled himself a neat cigarette. The whole operation took less than ten seconds, but it gave Francesca a brief opportunity to study him. She had never met anyone like him. The Andorran men she had seen from the window of the bus had been thin and wiry, rather shorter than the average Englishman. This man who had helped her topped six feet and had the shoulders of a heavyweight boxer. But although he was so tall, with powerful pectoral muscles straining the rough blue cotton of his shirt, he was no lumbering giant. His formidable shoulders tapered down to a thirty-inch waist and narrow hips, and his fingers expertly rolling the cigarette were long and lean.

Partly because he was so big and hardy-looking, and partly because he wore blue jeans and short leather riding boots, he reminded Francesca of a cowboy. And then she thought that, with his black hair and teak-dark skin and high-bridged nose, he looked more one of the rough Brazilian gauchos whom she had seen riding across the pampas in some travel film. After he had lit his cigarette, he did not look at her, but stood watching the street through the curtain until the girl returned. This time, the glass she brought contained a thick yellow concoction. "Drink it, senorita. It will do you good. It is only an egg beaten up with a little honey. I do not think you have had enough to eat today," the man said firmly, when Francesca hesitated before tasting it. She loathed raw eggs, but she did as he told her, and found it was not too unpleasant as the sweetness of the honey predominated. "You are staying here in Les Escaldes?" he asked, when she had swallowed it. "No, I am going on to Valyos ... to Senora Roja." "You have a car with you?" Francesca shook her head. "I came by bus. I shall have to get a taxi. Is Valyos far from here, senor?" "A few miles. I will take you there myself. I live near Valyos. Senora Roja is an old friend of mine." "Oh, but I couldn't possibly impose -" Francesca began. Before she could finish, he said briskly, "It is no trouble. Wait here, please. I will fetch my car." "But, senor-"

It was too late. He had gone. Francesca bit her lip. "Oh, dear, what an idiot I was to black out like that," she said aloud, but speaking to herself because she had forgotten about the little shop girl hovering in the background. "Do not worry, senorita. You will be safe with Senor de Vega. He is a good man. He is liked by all the people in the Valleys," the girl assured her earnestly. "Oh, you speak English," Francesca exclaimed, surprised. Then, smiling, "It was kind of you to let me come and sit in here, senorita. Thank you." "It was a pleasure. I am sorry you were ill," the girl said politely. "It is not good to start a holiday with sickness." "I must pay you for your egg and honey, senorita," Francesca said, opening her bag. But the girl refused to accept any money, insisting that no one in Les Escaldes would consider taking payment for helping a stranger in distress. "You are welcome, senorita. What is one egg?" she said, with a shrug. "Is Senor de Vega a farmer?" Francesca asked presently. the girl shook her head. "He is..She frowned, evidently at a loss for the English term for his occupation. "He is a veterinario. You understand?" "Yes ... a veterinary surgeon. Does he really live near Valyos?"

"Where else, senorita? The senor, he does not say what is not true. But I think he would take you there if it was not near his own house," she added reflectively. "He is kind to animals - and to people." A few minutes later a vehicle drew up outside the shop, and the man reappeared. "Are you ready, senorita ? " he asked. As Francesca nodded and stood up, the other girl said something to him in Catalan, and he grinned suddenly. He had excellent teeth, Francesca noticed. "Adios, senorita, I hope you enjoy your visit to our country," the girl said, turning to her. "Goodbye ... and thank you again for your kindness." Francesca held out her hand, and they exchanged a brief friendly clasp while Senor de Vega picked up Francesca's suitcase and held back the green bead curtain. He was driving a jeep, the back piled with various crates and cartons, several coils of rope and some farm implements. After he had helped Francesca to climb into the passenger seat, he made sure her case was secure, and then strode round the bonnet to his own seat. It was not until they had left the little town behind that he said suddenly, "It is time I introduced myself. My name is Nicolas de Vega... and yours, senorita?" "Cornel - Francesca Cornel." He glanced at her for a moment, then returned his attention to the road. "You are evidently what the French call 'une jeune fille bien elevee' - a girl of strict upbringing," he said presently.

"Why do you say that ? " she asked, puzzled. "Before we left the shop, Juanita told me you had been doubtful about accepting a lift with me, but she had assured you I was entirely respectable. Clearly you are conscious of the hazards which beset young women travelling alone. How is it that your family permit you to come to Andorra on your own?" She thought he must be laughing at her, but his expression was quite serious. "I am not a schoolgirl, senor," she answered stiffly. "But you are not very old, I think. Seventeen? ... perhaps eighteen?" "I am twenty-two," she told him crisply. "Indeed? Then perhaps it is only because you are tired and have not been well recently that you lode so much younger - and unfitted to travel by yourself." "I am not in the habit of fainting, senor," she said repressively. "In fact it was the first time it has ever happened to me." "But then you have been ill, have you not?" "Not ill exactly - I was injured in a motor accident recently. Normally, I am as strong as a horse." She thought she saw a flicker of amusement at the corner of his mouth. "Never mind, you will soon recover your strength in the Valleys," he said. "Our climate makes everyone feel well, and Senora Roja is an excellent cook. You .will gain weight very quickly at her table. How long are you staying, senorita ? " "I've booked for three weeks."

"But I've no desire to get as fat as a Christmas goose - which is obviously your idea of how a healthy girl should look," Francesca thought tartly. It was ungrateful of her, because she ought to be thankful for his kindness, but ever since they had left the town this man had been ruffling her temper. First he implied that she looked sickly, and then he hinted that her figure was unattractively skinny. She was not vain, but neither was she accustomed to masculine disapprobation, and it made her feel edgy and defensive. She did not speak again until he pointed out the village of Valyos, about half a mile ahead, and then she said formally, "I am very grateful for your help, senor. You have been most kind." The Casa Roja was at the far end of the hamlet and, as they passed , through the small dusty square, her companion called a greeting to some women standing by the public fountain. They smiled and waved to him, and stared with open curiosity at Francesca. Senora Roja was a short, stout woman in her fifties, with a lined and ruddy complexion and grey hair scraped back into a bun. She bustled out of her house a few moments after Senor de Vega had sounded his horn. Her greeting, in rapid French, was warmly welcoming. "You do speak French, I presume?" de Vega asked, after Francesca had smiled and shaken hands with the woman. His tone sounded faintly patronising and, unwisely, she said, "Yes, senor." Speaking even more quickly than the senora, he said something in French to her. "Do you know what I said?" he asked sceptically.

Francesca flushed and set her teeth. "It was too quick for me," she answered frigidly. "But I know enough to make myself understood." "That won't be much help if you can't understand other people," he told her sardonically. Francesca was beginning to feel muzzy again. She longed to be alone, to lie down. "I expect I'll manage," she said stiltedly. "One would think you didn't approve of tourists, senor." "In your case, I don't," he answered bluntly. "In fact I am beginning to regret having brought you here. I think now it would have been wiser to have fixed you up in Escaldes where more people speak English. However, I dare say I can manage to keep an eye on you." "Please don't bother, senor. I'm perfectly capable of looking after myself. That's why I came here - to rest and be alone." He did not answer that, but swung down from the driving seat, lifted out her suitcase, and walked round the bonnet to help her alight. Then, his hand under her elbow, he steered her up two steps and into the house. The front door led into a narrow stone-flagged passage with a staircase at the far end. De Vega asked Senora Roja's permission to take the suitcase upstairs to the guest room, and when he had left them, the Andorran woman beckoned Francesca into an old-fashioned low-ceilinged kitchen, and offered her a chair. Then she fetched a carafe of wine and three glasses. "You must be tired after your long journey from England, senorita," she said kindly, speaking more slowly and distinctly this time.

Francesca nodded and was about to venture a reply when the senor came back. She lacked the courage to try out her French in front of him. He drank the wine he was offered, then spoke to the senor in what sounded like Catalan. "I have explained that you are a convalescent," he said, turning to Francesca. "The senora will give you a light meal, and then you had better go to bed. If you are sensible you will take life very easily for some days. Senora Roja is a busy woman. She cannot be expected to nurse you if you make yourself ill by over-doing things. Adios, senorita." And, without offering his hand, or giving her a chance to reply, he bowed to the older woman and strode out of the kitchen.

CHAPTER TWO IT was nearly noon when Francesca woke up the next day. When she peered at her watch and saw the time, she flung back the clothes and jumped out of bed in such haste that she made her head swim. Then, more slowly, she stepped into blue velvet mules, slipped a light silk robe over her short nylon nightdress, and went out on the little ironrailed balcony which was just large enough to take an upright chair and a small table. Her room was at the side of the house and overlooked a . carefully cultivated hillside. The whole slope had been banked into a series of terraces, and irrigation channels, fed by a stream rushing down from the heights, sparkled in the bright sunshine. Francesca drew a deep slow breath of the sweet mountain air, then remembered how late it was and turned back into the bedroom. She washed in water from an old-fashioned flowered china ewer, cleaned her teeth and quickly brushed her hair. Then she unpacked a pleated cornflower-blue skirt and a sleeveless white overblouse. Five minutes later, bare- legged and without any "make-up beyond a touch of rose lipstick, she hurried downstairs. There seemed to be no one about, and she was hovering uncertainly on the threshold of the large stone-flagged kitchen when Senora Roja came in from the yard with a basket of linen in her arms. "Ah, you are up, senorita. You found the bed comfortable? You have slept well?" she asked, in French. "Good morning, senora. Yes, I slept very well, thank you - too well. I am sorry to be so late. I do not usually.. Francesca stopped short, stumped. What was the French for "oversleep"?

"Oh, please, do not apologise. It is good that you rest after the long journey from England," the senora said approvingly. "It is usual for our visitors to sleep soundly. It is the effect of the air and the altitude, you understand. Now I will make coffee for you, and soon we will have lunch! You can eat fish, senorita ? " "Yes, thank you, I can eat anything," Francesca assured her. The senora looked dubiously at her guest's slender figure, and it was clear she doubted this statement. Her own proportions were similar to a cottage loaf, and her arms, below the rolled-up sleeves of her dark print working dress, were as brawny as a man's. "You wish to have your meals in your room ?" she asked. Francesca hesitated. "I don't mind, senora. Whatever is most convenient for you." "It is no trouble to serve them upstairs. When we have a number of guests - such as a family - it is customary. But, as you are alone, I thought you might like to eat with us. However it is just as you wish, senorita." "I would prefer to have my meals down here - if your family do not object to having a stranger with them," Francesca said diffidently. "It will be a pleasure. We like to hear about life beyond the Valleys," the senora said smilingly. "There are some who say we mountain people are cerrada - which means we are not friendly, you understand - but it is not true. We enjoy company." At half past twelve Senor Roja and his son, Vasco, came in from the fields. The farmer was a swarthy little man with a bushy black moustache and beetling eyebrows.

He was not quite as tall as his wife, and much shorter than Francesca, who was five feet seven in her nylons, but he was stocky and very muscular. His clothes were rough working garments and his hands were calloused, but he pulled off his black beret and welcomed Francesca with great courtesy before presenting his son to her. The boy Was ten years old, and the senora had already told Francesca how she and her husband had despaired of having a family until, late in life, they had at last been blessed with a baby. The midday meal began with bowls of rich vegetable soup from a cauldron over the fire, followed by fried brook trout and a salad of endives and pimentos. Then Senora Roja cut four thick wedges from a spice-flavoured cake, and her husband insisted that Francesca should have another glass of the blend of sweet red wine and dry white wine, which, she learned, was the favourite local beverage. After lunch Francesca unpacked her suitcase and hung, her clothes in the massive herb-scented armoire. Then she went for a walk. It was another hot day, and she did not attempt to go far beyond the village. When she had strolled about half a mile down the track and was feeling drowsy from her lunch and the wine, she sat on a boulder to rest. She was shading her eyes to gaze at one of the highest mountain peaks - snow-capped even in summer - when she was startled and a little alarmed by loud cries which seemed to come from the other side of a thicket of trees and bushes. They sounded as if someone was in pain and calling for aid. As the shouts ceased as abruptly as they had begun, Francesca jumped to her feet and ran to help. The thicket looked too dense to penetrate, so she had to circle round it and jump the stream which gushed swiftly down the hillside on the far fringe of the coppice. As she did so there was another muffled yell from higher up the; slope.

Scrambling up a steep grassy incline to where the ground levelled out again, she was horrified to see that, only a few yards away where the water swirled through a natural basin of rock, a man was tormenting a squirming boy. Gripping his victim by a handful of hair, and by twisting his left forearm up between his shoulder-blades, he was deliberately holding the lad's head under the surface of the pool. And, even though he had his back to her, Francesca recognised him at once. It was Senor de Vega. "Stop it! You'll drown him. Let him go!" she cried out furiously. De Vega straightened, releasing his brutal hold on the kneeling boy, who collapsed, coughing and gasping, on the ground. "You brute! You ... you sadist!" Francesca flared. And, rushing forward, she brought up her hand and gave de Vega a stinging slap on the cheek. It would have taken a much more powerful blow to throw such a big man off balance, but it was enough to make him flinch, and to leave a livid imprint on his darkly bronzed skin. For a moment Francesca thought he was going to retaliate by heaving her into the pool. His eyes were fierce glittering slits, and he looked savage and ruthless. A tremor of fear went through her, but she did not show it. By this time the boy on the ground had recovered sufficient breath to stagger to his feet. But as he clawed his way up a sandy shelf and disappeared over the top of it, de Vega made no attempt to stop him. He did not even turn his head, but kept his eyes on Francesca.

His face was expressionless now, but there was something in his stance which made her feel that she would not escape him so easily. He looked impassive and relaxed, but she was unpleasantly reminded of a leopard Waiting to pounce on its hypnotised quarry. "You are stronger than you look, senorita." His hand went up to his cheek, and his smile was not pleasant. Francesca's hands clenched, and her blue eyes sparkled with contempt. "You ought to be ashamed," she flashed scathingly. "A man of your size bullying a half-grown boy! It's utterly contemptible!" "He isn't hurt," he said coolly. "Perhaps not - but he might have been if I hadn't come and caught you. If he has any sense he'll report you to his father, poor boy. People like you need a taste of their own nasty methods. Oh, if only I were a man..." "But you are not," he said crisply. "So I suggest you cool that temper, Miss Cornel. I do not take kindly to being slapped by hot-headed young women. If you try it again, I might retaliate." "I doubt it," she said hardily. "But if you did, you would regret it, senor. I am not as easily intimidated as a village boy." Outwardly scornful, but inwardly tensed to dodge if he made a grab at her, she turned to climb the bank and get away from him. Then, for the first time, she saw what lay on the ground beyond the rock pool. She drew in a sharp breath of horror. "Don't look at it." De Vega gripped her arm and swung her round.

But one glance had been enough to make Francesca feel physically sick. Shaken, appalled, she let him lead her away from the viciously mutilated body of the puppy. It was not until he had helped her down the grass bank and over the stream that she was sufficiently composed to speak. "Senor, I-I-" "Forget it," he said tersely. "Go home and try not to think about it." Then he sprang back across the stream and left her alone.

The following morning, Francesca returned to the Casa Roja for lunch to be told by her hostess that Senor de Vega had called to enquire after her health. Francesca's immediate reaction was relief that she had not been in the house at the time of his visit. But then she wished she had. Sooner or later she must apologise for her wild misjudgement of him, and meanwhile, every time she recalled the way she had stormed at him she went hot. with mortification. After the noon meal, she rested on her bed for half an hour, then went out again. During the morning she had discovered a sheltered plateau of turf on the heights above the village. Taking her writing-case and a book, she climbed up to it again. The view was breathtaking. After she had written to Susan, she lay down on the grass and dozed. She was almost asleep when a shadow fell across her. Opening her eyes, she found Senor de Vega standing over her. With him was a black-eyed, gypsy- dark boy about eight or nine years old. Francesca flushed crimson and jerked into a sitting position.

"Good afternoon, Miss Cornel. I am sorry if we startled you." "Good afternoon, senor," she said awkwardly, managing to smile at the little boy, who was staring at her with an expression of some perplexity. "This is Jaime," de Vega told her. The boy gave her a quaintly formal bow. Then the man said something to him in Catalan, and he ran off. But he could not resist taking another puzzled look at Francesca as he went. "May I join you for a few minutes?" de Vega enquired. "Yes ... yes, of course," she assented nervously. Then, as he dropped on to the grass beside her, "Why did the little boy stare at me so oddly? Have I a smudge on my face?" Was the child this man's son? she wondered. They were both very dark, but otherwise she could not see much likeness between them. "I imagine he has never seen dyed hair before," the senor explained, his own glance resting on her pale silky hair for a moment. "It isn't dyed," Francesca said indignantly. "In that case it is not very wise for you to sunbathe too freely, You may burn yourself." "Oh, really, senor, I have some common sense," she retorted acidly. Then a second wave of colour stained her face. "I'm sorry," she said, chagrined. "I didn't mean to sound rude. But actually I tan quite easily. Senor, I want to apologise for behaving as I did yesterday. It was inexcusable."

"Oh, not inexcusable," he said negligently, with a. glint of cold mockery in his eyes. "All women are impulsive, unfortunately - and Englishwomen more than most, no doubt. But I believe I can bring myself to overlook your very spirited intervention, Miss Cornel. Indeed I count myself fortunate that you attacked me unarmed, so to speak. If you had happened to be carrying a stick, I should probably be in hospital today." Francesca bit her lower lip. She knew that this sardonic derision was the least she deserved in the circumstances. But that did not make it less galling. "I'm sorry," she said again, in a low voice. "You must have been furious already, and when I butted in like that ..." She made a small, expressive gesture. "I must admit I should like to know why you thought I was the type to enjoy dispensing brutality," he said dryly. "But I didn't," she said hurriedly. "When I saw you, I didn't stop to think. I just jumped to what seemed the obvious conclusion." "Obvious, Miss Cornel? I must have made a very unfavourable impression for the conclusion to be so obvious." "Not unfavourable exactly - but you were pretty overbearing the first time we met, you know," she told him incautiously. "Testing my French and ... and ordering me to go to bed like a schoolgirl." "I was annoyed that you had been allowed to come here when you seemed so ill-equipped to look after yourself," he explained levelly. "Allowed? I came because I chose to - I didn't have to ask anyone's permission."

"No, of course not. You are English," he said, his mouth twitching. "But in Andorra women much older than yourself still look to men for advice and protection, you see. However, I can appreciate that the thought of such masculine domination must offend your more emancipated views. I am sorry if I unwittingly affronted you. May we call a truce and start again ? " With an uneasy feeling that he was secretly laughing at her, Francesca accepted his hand and forced a smile. Senor de Vega lit a cheroot. To bridge what seemed likely to be an awkward silence, Francesca said brightly, "I've been admiring this marvellous view. That lake over there - can one swim in it ? " "One can... but I would not recommend it. The water is deep and always cold. I swim there myself sometimes, but I am accustomed to it." "Oh, well, anyway I didn't bring a swimsuit. What is the place over there, very high up?" she asked, pointing to the heights beyond the lake where a stone building, which did not look like a house, could be sera. "It is a horde where the sick animals are kept," he explained. "There is a good deal of foot and mouth disease in the Valleys because the preventive measures are not strict enough. Most of the hordes are very old. If you would, like to see one, I will take you up there one day when you are' stronger. It is a stiff climb to the pine forests." Francesca did not answer. Suddenly, while he was talking, she had noticed two rather curious things about him. He spoke English with scarcely any accent, and he had grey eyes. "Oh ... thank you. I should like that very much," she said hastily, looking away.

"How did you come to hear of Senora Roja?" he asked. Francesca explained that the farm had been recommended to her by Mr. Darwin. "Ah, yes, I remember him," he said. "He spent most of his time fishing, and his wife was quite a talented artist. He is your family doctor, I presume ? " "Oh, no, he's not in general practice. He is a famous neuro-surgeon... and a brain specialist," she told him. "Indeed? We did not realise he was such an eminent man. He treated one of my sister's children who was taken ill suddenly while he was here," the senor explained. "Senora Roja mentioned to his wife that one of our youngsters was sick, and he came straight up to offer his services. I was away that night, so there was no one to fetch a doctor from Escaldes! Fortunately it turned out to be less serious than Pilar had feared, but she was very grateful for his help." He paused for a moment before he added, "So I take it Mr. Darwin operated on you after this accident you mentioned yesterday?" Francesca nodded, and something in his face made her say, "But if you are thinking that I probably deserved my ; crack on the head, I should point out that I was not at the wheel when we crashed. I have a driving licence, but no car." "Why should I think you deserved to be hurt?" he asked. "Well, all men think women drivers are a menace, don't they? At any rate, most Englishmen do, so I imagine you would She stopped short. "So I would... what?" he prompted mildly: Francesca bit her lip. "Well, that you would feel even more strongly about it," she said reluctantly.

"You mean I strike you as someone with peculiarly bigoted views?" he enquired dryly. "No, no, of course not," Francesca said hastily. "What I mean was that, if Englishmen think women are shocking drivers, presumably men in other countries must be doubly dubious about our driving abilities." He arched one dark eyebrow. "I don't think I follow your line of reasoning, Miss Cornel." "I mean because women on the Continent seem to be rather less ... emancipated than we are," Francesca explained, hesitating over her choice of words because she was afraid of sounding derogatory. "Oh, I see. You mean that while Americans and Englishmen have allowed women to become their equals now, we still hold to our male supremacy." Francesca had a feeling he was laughing at her. "Well, yes, you could put it like that," she said guardedly. "Does it annoy you - our view that women should be subservient to men?" "Not particularly. I'm not an ardent feminist." "But no doubt you would not care to live in a country where you had always to defer to masculine judgment?" "That would depend on the man," she answered evenly. "I wouldn't like to be browbeaten, naturally." She changed the subject. "How is it that you speak such excellent English, senor?" she asked. "I trained at the Royal Veterinary College," he said, after glancing at his watch and sitting up.

"Oh, then you must know London well. Did you like living in England?" He stood up and reached out a hand to pull her up. "I liked it at the time, but I would not care to live in a city now," he said, as they strolled back to the jeep. "My roots are here in the Valleys." "And I have no roots anywhere," Francesca thought, as he called to Jaime to rejoin them. Back at the Casa Roja, they found the senora talking to a pretty dark-haired girl of about sixteen or seventeen years old. This was her niece, Juana, she explained to Francesca. Senor de Vega declined the senora's offer of a glass of wine, and asked Juana if she wanted a lift in the jeep. "My niece works for the senor's sister," the farmer's wife explained, after they had gone. "Such a pretty girl, don't you think, senorita? Naturally all the boys in the district are after her. But Juana is wise for her years. She knows that marriage is a serious undertaking and will not make up her mind yet. Why should she indeed? At her age, I had already been married for more than a year. But Senor Roja was my only suitor, and I had no fancy to be ah old maid. Now a girl like Juana will never lack for offers and, for the present, she has a very agreeable life at the Casa Vieja. The de Vegas treat her as one of the family, and her work there is not as hard as managing her own household and raising a family. My sister would like to see her settled, but I think she is sensible to wait and enjoy her situation." Francesca was about to ask the senora to tell her more about the Casa Vieja and de Vega family when the older woman was called away by a neighbour.

The next few days were uneventful. But each night Francesca slept more soundly, and each day her appetite improved and she was able to walk further afield without tiring herself. One afternoon, eight days after her arrival in Andorra, she asked Senora Roja if she might have some hot water with which to wash her hair. The soft spring water worked up a wonderful lather and then, while Francesca knelt beside a big tin bowl on the kitchen floor, the senora poured jugfuls of tepid rinsing water over her head. About half an hour later, Francesca was sitting in the sun on the bench outside the back door, a towel round her shoulders and her hair now almost dry again, when her hostess bustled out to announce that Senor de Vega fished to speak to her. "I asked him to step into the sola, senorita," she said. Francesca quickly combed her hair and went indoors. She found her visitor standing in the cool dimness of the Rojas elaborately furnished little parlour. He was contemplating a large green glass bowl filled with shiny wax fruits, and, in his faded levis and open-necked shirt, he looked as out of place among the heavy highly-polished furniture and the clutter of knick-knacks as a Texan cowboy in a Victorian drawing room. "Good afternoon, Miss Cornel," he said formally. "I am sorry if I have spoiled your siesta." "I wasn't resting. I never sleep in the daytime. I've been sitting in the sun to dry my hair," she explained, smiling. "And please, won't you call me Francesca ? "

"Thank you." He gave a slight bow. "I bring an invitation from my grandmother," he went on. "She wonders if you would care to dine with us at the Casa Vieja this evening?" "I should love to," Francesca said readily. "How very kind of your grandmother to ask me." "It will be a pleasure for her ... for us all," he said politely. "I will call for you about half past seven, if that is convenient? We do not keep late hours at the Casa now." "Thank you, senor. I'll be ready." A slight smile curved his firm mouth. "Senor?" he said, in a questioning tone. "My name is Nicolas." She hesitated, finding herself curiously shy of using his first name. "Thank you... Nicolas,' she amended, after a moment. His grey eyes glinted with amusement. "I am sure you are always a model of punctuality ... Francesca." His pause matched her own slight hesitation, and the way he said her name sent an odd little tremor through her. He had made it sound almost like an endearment, she thought, in sudden confusion. "And now, if you will excuse me, I have to make a call in Canillo." His tone was brisk again. "Until tonight, then." After he had left, Francesca went into the kitchen to tell Senora Roja that she was going out for the evening. "You are favoured, senorita. The de Vegas are of the noblesse, you understand. The old senora does not offer hospitality to every visitor to

Valyos," the farmer's wife told her, looking impressed. "You must dress in your best for this occasion." "Oh, do you think so?" Francesca said doubtfully. "Most certainly, senorita. Juana tells me Dona Maria is most exacting in her standards. It would never do to offend her sense of decorum. Undoubtedly you must dress with the utmost formality." Francesca went up to her room to look through her clothes. Susan had done most of her packing for her because the younger girl had a genius for filling a suitcase in such a way that nothing was ever crumpled or crushed. The secret!, she maintained, was to use masses of tissue paper, and she had insisted on putting in a number of things which Francesca had thought quite unnecessary. One of these was a black chiffon cocktail dress which Francesca now took out of the armoire and studied with a frown of indecision. It was a dress of classic undating simplicity, suitable, in London, for a variety of engagements. She had worn it to go to the theatre, to go dancing with Johnny, and on Christmas night at the Bells' farm in Dorset. It was what Sue called a "when in doubt" dress. But was it right for dinner at the Casa Vieja? - or would it be better to wear her cream silk pants suit, or the turquoise cotton? No, not the turquoise because it was sleeveless. If old Senora de Vega was as fussy as Juana made out, she certainly wouldn't approve of bare arms and shoulders. And while the suit had sleeves and a modest neckline, she was not sure what her hostess would think of trousers for evening wear. In fact the black chiffon seemed to be the only garment she had which was likely to pass muster with a pernickety old lady. So, at seven o'clock, having pinned her hair into a smooth French pleat and applied only the most discreet touch of frosted azure eye-shadow and her softest rose lipstick, Francesca put on a strapless black bra and stepped into the whispering folds of chiffon. Her arms, so winter-pale

only a fortnight ago, were now smoothly golden under the long sheer sleeves, and she no longer looked frail and debilitated. Indeed, as she fastened her pearl-drop ear-rings and then sprayed Narcisse Noir over her hair, she knew that she felt better than she had done for many months, and that she looked well and vital again. Senora Roja was Volubly complimentary when Francesca went downstairs, and insisted that she should wait for Senor de Vega in the sola. A few minutes later the jeep drew up outside the house. When Nicolas reached the parlour doorway, he stopped short on the threshold as if, for an instant, he had failed to recognise her. Francesca also stared because, tonight, he too looked very different from the way she was accustomed to seeing him. He was wearing a medium grey summer-weight lounge suit, and Francesca knew enough about men's clothes to recognise the expensive quality of the cloth and the excellent cut. It was unmistakably an, English suit, and looked as if it had been made by one of the best tailors in London. An impeccably laundered white shirt made his tan look even deeper than usual, and he wore a plain dark grey knitted silk tie like the black one she had given Johnny at Christmas. While she was still gazing at him - she noticed that, unlike most Continental men, he wore no jewellery and his cuff-links were plain gold squares - Nicolas stepped into the room and took her hand. "You look charming," he said quietly, and his lips brushed lightly over her fingertips. "Thank you," Francesca murmured, and she wondered why a conventional compliment and having her hand kissed - a commonplace courtesy abroad - should give her so much pleasure.

Nicolas had arranged a large car rug over the passenger seat in the jeep. Watched by three black-shawled old women who were gossiping by the public fountain, he handed Francesca up. "Does your little boy stay up for dinner, or has he had his supper by now?" she asked, when they had left the village. "My little boy? Oh, you mean Jaime? No, the children do not eat with us at night. They have their meal at six o'clock." "How many children have you got?" she asked. Nicolas changed gear. "Forty-two." "Forty-two!" she exclaimed. "Hasn't Senora Roja told you? The Casa Vieja is an hospicio - a home for destitute children." "Oh, I see. I had no idea. So Jaime is not your own child?" "No, he is an orphan ... and I am a bachelor," Nicolas added, with a swift and slightly quizzical glance at her. It was a look which made Francesca say rather hurriedly, "Where do the children come from? Surely they can't all be Andorran?" "No, they come from many countries - some from refugee camps, some from slums, some from' other sources. Jaime is a Madrileno. He lost both his parents when he was a baby and was brought up by his grandmother, who was connected with my family many years ago. Before she died, last year, she arranged to have him brought to us. He has had a fairly hard childhood, but nothing like as bad as most of our youngsters. It is amazing that some of them have survived, poor little wretches." He looked at her again, and this time his eyes were sombre. "The bright light of the twentieth century does not shine on us all,

unfortunately. There are places in Europe - and all over the world, for that matter - where the squalor and misery is as bad as it was in mediaeval times. There is the Casa ahead of us," he added, pointing out a large grey stone house which stood by itself in a wooded fold of the foothills. There was no wall or fence surrounding the house, and they approached it by way of a rickety plank bridge spanning a stream and a track made by the wheels of the jeep which led right up to the main entrance. This was a massive studded oak door with a Spanish-style grille over a hatch. The door was open and on the steps lay a crumpled length of ribbon, a child's hair ribbon. Nicolas bent to pick it up and put it in his pocket. Then he cupped his palm under Francesca's elbow and led her through a short white-walled passage which opened into a large square hall with a black and white terrazzo floor and one of the most curious and beautiful staircases Francesca had ever seen., The risers between each worn wooden step were set with rows of variously patterned and vividly coloured tiles, and the balustrade was an intricate filigree of black wrought iron. "I expect my grandmother is waiting for us in the sola" said Nicolas, opening a door near the foot of the staircase. The room within was very different from the ornate, old-fashioned parlour at the Casa Roja. It was a long, light, airy-looking apartment, with two Moorish silver chandeliers hanging from the old dark beams supporting the upper storey. The walls were whitewashed, as was the wide stone hearth with its massive chimney jutting into the room, and the floor was laid with waxed terra-cotta tiles. The furnishings were much the same as those in a comfortably appointed English country house.

Nicolas's grandmother sat in a high-backed wing chair, one hand on her lap, the other resting on the polished bone fastened at her throat with an old-fashioned gold brooch;, and a mantilla of the most exquisitely delicate black lace was arranged over her thick white hair. Her face and hands were the colour of antique ivory, -engraved with a fascinating tracery of hair-fine lines. Francesca knew instantly that she was in the presence of a grande dame - probably a rather formidable one. Nicolas introduced them. "Amada, this is Miss Cornel. Francesca ... my grandmother, Dona Maria Luisa de Vega." "How do you do, Miss Cornel. Welcome to our home." Dona Maria gave a gracious inclination of her head and stretched out her hand. "How do you do. It is very kind of you to ask me here." Francesca was so impressed by the old lady's regal appearance and bearing that she felt an impulse to sink into a curtsey. But instead she took the offered hand in hers and was slightly surprised to find that the clasp of those pale bony fingers was as warm and firm as her own. "Sit here, Miss Cornel." Dona Maria indicated the chair nearest her own. "Nicolas, some sherry, if you please." She pronounced the name of the wine in the Spanish way - "hereth" but otherwise her English was almost as faultless as her grandson's. Francesca was not shy and had never found it difficult to talk strangers, but while Nicolas was filling their copitas, she did wonder if conversation was going to be heavy going on this occasion. But it was not. As soon as Nicolas had handed them their glasses, Dona Maria said charmingly, "To your restored good health, Miss

Cornel. Nicolas tells me that you have come to Andorra to recover from an illness. I feel sure that your stay in the Valleys will be most beneficial, especially as you are in the excellent care of our good friend "Senora Roja. Let us hope when you return to England that it will be in the best of health and with many pleasant memories of your holiday here." "Thank you. As a matter of fact I feel quite well again already," Francesca said, smiling, after the others had both raised their glasses to this toast. "The Valleys are so lovely, and everyone is so friendly and kind that it would be impossible not to enjoy one's self. I am surprised so few people come here - although I suppose it would spoil things if there were too many tourists about." For the next ten minutes or so, she and her hostess kept up an easy flow of small talk, with Nicolas putting in an occasional remark. Francesca noticed that Dona Maria never once gave her one of those swift but comprehensive appraisals which she was accustomed to receive from the majority of women, even the most good-mannered. She had been about seventeen when she had first realised that her looks did not endear her to her own sex. Now that they were set off by immaculate grooming and fashionable clothes, she found it even more difficult to get on with other women. The clever ones dismissed her as a featherbrain, and those who were plain or plump or badly dressed often showed marked hostility. These reactions troubled Francesca. She had never been vain of her appearance because she knew that there was no merit in having photogenic features, striking colouring and a naturally willowy figure - it was merely luck. And anyone could be well groomed and fashionable if they stuck to a meticulous and often tiresome beauty programme, and cultivated an eye for good style and planned their wardrobe carefully. She resented the assumption that, because she was

a model, she was necessarily conceited and flighty, or the hard-boiled gold-digging type. "Ah, here are Pilar and Miklos," said Dona Maria, as the door opened and a man and woman joined than. "Miss Cornel, let me present my granddaughter Pilar and Doctor Miklos Rador." Francesca stood up to shake hands with than - Doctor Rador clicked his heels together and kissed her fingers with unsmiling formality and, a moment later, Juana appeared to announce that dinner was ready. "Then we will come at once." Dona Maria gripped her walking stick, and Nicolas helped her to rise. Although she was extraordinarily upright for her age - Francesca thought she must be at least seventy-five - she walked with a pronounced limp. . They dined round a long polished table on an open, vine-shaded patio at the rear of the house. Dona Maria and Nicolas sat at either end, with Francesca on her hostess's right hand and Doctor Rador on the left. Pilar took the chair between Francesca and her brother, and Juana and another young Andorran girl called Margarita served the hors-d'oeuvre of smoked trout and then sat down opposite. "You have been abroad before, Miss Cornel?" Dona Maria enquired, after she had said grace. "Yes, I've been to Norway and Paris and Vienna ... and Malta. My job involved a certain amount of travelling," Francesca answered, immediately regretting this last remark. For some reason which she could not analyse, she felt a reluctance to disclose how she earned her living. These people were devoting their

lives to the relief of suffering. They would be bound to regard her own job as a very frivolous occupation. However Dona Maria did not ask the obvious question, but said, "I have never been to Malta or Scandinavia, but I was fortunate enough to visit most of the great European capitals when I was a girl. But that was before the first war, when the world -was a very different place. I am told that Vienna is only a shadow of the city I remember, and as for Budapest..She glanced at the man beside her, and said? "Doctor Rador is from Hungary, Miss Cornel. He is now a compatriot of yours, or rather a citizen of the British Commonwealth. It was necessary for him to work in an Australian lumber camp for two years in order to obtain a passport. In my youth one could travel anywhere at will. Now we must all have proof of our identity or, officially, we do not exist. So civilisation advances. However, in Andorra we are fortunate. As yet we are not plagued by too many meddling bureaucrats. The laws here are mainly the laws of Nature." "Speaking of laws, I think you will have to have a word with Paul, Nicolas," said Pilar. "It is all very well for him to risk his own neck pretending to be a famous mountaineer, but if he encourages the smaller boys to ape his feats there may be a serious accident. I think you have more influence with him than Miklos or I do. I wish you would impress on him that great alpinists are never foolhardy." She turned to Francesca. "Do you like children, Miss Cornel ?" she asked politely. "I haven't had a great deal to do with them. My brother has three children, but the twins are not two yet and the eldest boy is only four. I get on with him quite well because he loves to be told a story or to play make-believe games. Anyone could manage him. I expect it is much more difficult to cope with older children." "On the contrary it requires great patience and imagination to keep small children happy," Pilar said earnestly.

Francesca judged her to be some years older than her brother, although she might look younger than she did if her hair was not scraped back from her face into a heavy chignon, and if she were not wearing a floral rayon dress which was much too fussy for her. The colours in the material - muddy greens and mustard-yellow - emphasised the sallowness of her complexion and her eyebrows were thick and untidy. Yet, with her large dark eyes, long curling lashes and beautiful teeth, she was by no means lacking in potential. Later, when Pilar was amused by a remark made by her grandmother, Francesca was reminded of Margot Fonteyn. The older girl had the same wide, appealing smile as the English prima ballerina. Her whole face lit up and her dark eyes sparkled with laughter. But most of the time her expression was grave and rather melancholy. The second course, brought from the kitchen in a large covered dish by Margarita, proved to be boiled snails. Francesca braced herself as she watched Dona Maria spoon a generous helping on to the first of the plates set before her. "Have you tried snails before?" Pilar asked her. "Only once ... in Paris," Francesca said, with an inward shudder. That first sample had been enough to convince her that - delicacy or not - she would never acquire a taste for them. Now she must eat at least a dozen of a much larger species than those she had had in Paris. "These are mountain snails, not the cultivated type they use in France," Pilar explained. "The children go out and gather them after it has been raining. They are very gritty, so we have to feed them on flour for several days. I must confess I do not like to watch them being lured out of their shells by the warmth of the fire and then thrown into the cooking pot, poor little creatures. But greed overcomes my scruples. They are so delicious."

Francesca managed to smile, but she avoided looking at her plate until everyone else had been served and a boat of sauce handed round. Then she was obliged to pick up the silver instrument like a toothpick which had puzzled her when she first sat down at the table, and to winkle the first snail out of its shell. Mercifully, the sauce had a strong peppery flavour which masked the taste of snail-flesh. But even so it needed all her will power to eat them without betraying her inner revulsion. Swallowing the last snail, she glanced along the table and saw Nicolas watching her with a hint of amusement in his eyes. "What do you think of them, Francesca? Do you prefer the French variety? Our snails are thought to have a somewhat coarser flavour." "I am not a connoisseur, so I can't really judge. They taste excellent to me," she said blandly. But she could not conceal a flicker of dismay when he said, "Have some more, won't you?" "Oh, no ... thank you," she said hastily, before she realised that the entree dish was already empty. Nicolas's mouth twitched slightly, and she knew that he had been deliberately baiting her. Strangely, she did not resent his teasing but rather liked it, although she hoped none of the others had sensed her distaste for the snails. Aware that his eyes were still on her, she said to Pilar, "One would never guess that you had over forty children here. Are they all in bed already ? "

"Yes, they go to bed early because they are up at sunrise and they need plenty of sleep. The older ones are allowed to read until we put out the lights at nine o'clock, but they are usually very tired after the day's activities." Pilar gave one of her lovely smiles. "We have no peace and quiet during the day. It is like living in a zoo. Perhaps you would like to visit us when the children are about, Miss Cornel? You will not recognise the place." "I should love to come - if I won't be in the way." "Not at all. We welcome visitors. Come tomorrow, if you like, if you have nothing else to do." "Thank you, I will. It's time I had some exercise. All I've done since I've been here is to eat and sleep and laze in the sun most of the day. Before I leave I must go down to your capital and see the Palace of the Valleys. Senor Roja was telling me about it last night." "Nicolas is going to Andorra la Vieja next week. I am sure he would be glad to take you with him," said Dona Maria. "Most certainly," her grandson agreed. "I will let you know which day I am going, Francesca." "Oh, thank you, but I don't want to impose on you," she began uncertainly. "It will be a pleasure to have your company," he said politely. She smiled at him, and then glanced at Juana, who had risen to take away the plates. For one instant the Andorran girl met her eyes and there was an expression of unmistakable dislike on her pretty rosy face. Then she looked away, and Francesca wondered if she had imagined that momentary tightening of the girl's mouth, the angry quiver of her nostrils.

As Doctor Rador had not said a word since she had met him, Francesca assumed that, like Margarita, he spoke no English. But while Nicolas was carving a roast chicken, Pilar said, "You are very quiet tonight, Miklos." He had been sitting with one thin shapely hand curled round the stem of his wine-glass, lost in thought, a slight frown between his level eyebrows. It was some seconds before Pilar's remark penetrated his abstraction. He roused himself, glanced swiftly round the table as if he had forgotten where he was, and said quickly, "Forgive me - I was thinking about little Peter. He has lost weight again." He spoke English with a strong accent, but without pausing to search for words. "Peter is our problem child. We know little about his background, but it must have been very bad. He has been here one year now and still he is thin and nervous and never smiles," Pilar explained to Francesca. "Don't worry, Miklos," she said gently to the Hungarian. "Peter will recover one day, I know he will. Stefan was just the same when he first came here, and now he is a strong happy boy. Whatever happened to Peter will not always haunt him. He will forget... in time." 1 Something in the older girl's tone gave Francesca the impression that her assurance applied to the doctor as well as to Peter. Perhaps he had said he was worried about the boy to cover some more personal preoccupation. Perhaps Pilar knew what he had been thinking about and had wanted to distract him from those thoughts. "Yes, no doubt you are right," he agreed. He turned to Francesca. "While you are in Andorra you should try to attend one of the village fairs, Miss Cornel. They are very entertaining events. If, like most visitors, you have your, camera with you, you will be able to take some good photographs of the traditional dances."

"I'm afraid I haven't brought a camera, but I should like to go to a fair. Will there be one in Valyos while I am here?" Francesca asked. "Not in Valyos, but there is to be a fair at Ordino the week after next. Perhaps we could all go, Nicolas? " Pilar suggested to her brother. "It is a long time since I have danced the sardanas." As soon as dinner was over. Pilar and Doctor Rador went off to see that their charges were sleeping peacefully, Juana and Margarita cleared the table, and Nicolas assisted his grandmother back to the sala where they had coffee and apricot brandy. But presently he excused himself and left Francesca alone with Dona Maria. After a little polite conversation, Dona Maria returned to a subject that was obviously close to her heart - her grandson. It was clear that he was the apple of her eye, and that she was fonder of him even than the average doting grandmother. "It is very delightful to see such a happy relationship," agreed Francesca. "Has Nicolas lived with you for long?" "Since he was ten years old, when his parents were killed in an air crash," explained Dona Maria. "He has lived here ever since - except for the years when he was training in England." "Why England?" asked Francesca in some surprise. "It was his mother's country," explained Dona Maria. "My daughter-in-law was an English girl." "Oh, I see - so that's why Nicolas has grey eyes," Francesca exclaimed. "Yes, both he and Pilar are half English, and Nicolas has grey eyes like his mother. However it is Pilar who is really most like my daughter-in-law. She has many traits which' remind me of Caroline.

Nicolas is like his father. He may appear to have more English blood in him, but in temperament he is all Spanish." At this point Pilar rejoined them. "The children are all asleep and Miklos has also gone to bed," she said, sitting down and helping herself to some of the nougat and marzipan sweetmeats in a dish on the coffee table. "I think he feels one of his migraines coming on, poor man. He asked me to apologise for him, Miss Cornel, but when he has one of these bad headaches there is nothing for it but to go to bed until the attack passes." "I quite understand," Francesca said sympathetically. "An aunt of mine has migraines and suffers torture with them." Pilar sighed. "It is some months since Miklos had one. They were more frequent when he first came here, and I had hoped he was free of them after all this time. And he worries too much about his work." She is in love with him, Francesca thought. Nicolas came back and asked if they would like to hear the new gramophone records he had collected from Las Escalde the day before. Pilar went to the kitchen to fetch fresh coffee, and then they all listened quietly to a record of a Rachmaninoff piano concerto. "Do you play the piano, Miss Cornel?" her hostess asked, when title last note had died away. "I had lessons at school, but I was never very promising. I'm afraid I have no accomplishments at all," Francesca said wryly. "You have a job, I think you said. That is mote of an accomplishment than staying at home playing the piano and doing embroidery as girls used to do years ago," Pilar remarked.

"I do not agree," her grandmother said firmly. "No doubt I am old-fashioned, but I cannot see that for girls to take up careers is an advance on the old system. I except nursing and teaching, which are worthwhile vocations with some application to marriage. But women are born to be wives and mothers and, from what I have read in various foreign periodicals, it seems to me that girls who go out to work are not only unprepared for the task of managing a home and bearing children, but they frequently resent such responsibilities." "They do not have servants and nursemaids as you did, amada," Pilar said gently. "It must be hard work bring a cook and cleaning woman and nannie all rolled into one. What do you think, Nicolas? Do you think girls should sit at home, being domestic while they wait for husbands?" Nicolas was standing by the gramophone, selecting another record. He shrugged his shoulders. "I have never considered the matter," he said negligently. "Of course not - being a confirmed bachelor the subject would not interest you," his sister said mischievously. "But who knows? If we go to the fair at Ordino next week, you may meet your fate, nino. There is generally at least one engagement after a fair," she added to Francesca. "There is not much social life in the Valleys, you see, so it is at the village fairs that most of the young people meet and fall in love." Nicolas placed another record on the turn-table, and this time it was the wild, throbbing rhythm of Spanish flamenco which filled the room; music to conjure visions of starlit nights and gypsy faces bronzed by the glow of the camp-fire, of high-heeled boots drumming on the beaten earth, of flounced skirts tossing and swirling. When the music ended, Francesca glanced at her watch and felt it was time to leave.

"I think I ought to go now," she said, rising. "Senora Roja may be waiting for me, and she has to get up very early in the morning. Thank you very much for having me, senora. This evening will be one of the pleasant memories I shall take back to England with me." "You must dine with us again, Miss Cornel," the old lady said kindly, as they shook hands. "And I shall expect you tomorrow morning. Come about half past nine," Pilar suggested. "We have a break at ten and I shall be free to show you round. Oh, Nicolas, Juana wants to go home for the night. She asked if you would run her down to Valyos when you took Miss Cornel home. I'll go and tell her you are ready. Goodnight, Miss Cornel." It was some minutes before Juana joined them. "I am sorry about the snails," Nicolas said, while they waited for her. "Florentina consults Pilar about our meals, and as they are one of my sister's favourite foods, she probably never considered that most English people find them as repulsive as frogs' legs and squids." "I've never tasted squid, but I've enjoyed frogs' legs. I hoped no one would guess that I'm not very keen on snails. The rest of the meal was delicious," Francesca said sincerely. "I hope your grandmother didn't notice that I was not exactly relishing them." "I am sure she didn't. You concealed it magnificently. It was only by a slightly glazed look in your eye each time you swallowed one that I guessed you were having trouble," he said, with a grin. Then, his eyes narrowing slightly, "You are not an actress, are you ? " "Good heavens, no! What on earth makes you think I might be?" she asked, startled.

He appraised her for a moment. Evidently he was not one of those totally unobservant men who never noticed what a woman was wearing, unless it happened to be a particularly eye-stopping bikini. To night he was obviously aware that her dress and the details of her appearance - the amethyst 'knuckle-duster' from Dior, Arden lipstick applied with a brush, and silk slippers from Pine - were very different from those of his sister and the two pretty but decidedly rustic Andorran girls. He said as much. "You don't look as if you toil at any of the more humdrum occupations," he remarked dryly. "My job is very humdrum. I'm a ... a secretary," she said. As soon as the words were out, she could not think what had possessed her to lie to him. It was crazy. It did not make sense. Juana came hurrying out of the house, and Nicolas helped her into the back of the jeep. Starting the engine, he switched on the headlamps the lingering summer twilight was almost over - and they started off. "How long are you staying in the Valleys, senorita?" Juana asked suddenly, when they were about halfway to the village. Francesca was still wondering what had prompted her to say she was a secretary, and if there was any way in which she could retrieve the falsehood. "Oh, I've booked for three weeks, but I might stay a month if I feel like it," she answered, half turning to reply to the girl behind. "You do not find it too quiet in Valyos?" "I want a restful holiday."

"It is not noisy in Las Escaldes and there is more to do. There are shops and a cinema," Juana told her. "The cinema is Juana's idea of heaven," Nicolas said, in an amused tone. "I like films too - but not when I can sit on my little balcony and watch a real mountain sunset, not just a Technicolor one," Francesca said lightly. "But in Las Escaldes one can take health-giving baths in water from the hot springs, and there are cafes and many interesting people ... sometimes rich American gentlemen," Juana persisted. "Well, thanks for the tip- but although I paint my nails and wear eye-shadow I'm not a shady foreign adventuress," Francesca thought sardonically. Aloud, she said, "I hope to look round Las Escaldes before I leave, but as I live in a city all the year I would rather spend my holiday in the country, Juana." The girl relapsed into silence, but Francesca had a feeling that she was being glared at, and she remembered the baleful look Juana had given her during dinner. Suddenly, she divined the reason for that look and for the pointed hints that she would be better off in Las Escaldes. Obviously Juana had a crush on Nicolas and resented his attention to an outsider. Juana was jealous. "You needn't worry, my dear girl," Francesca thought dryly. "I came to Andorra to forget men, not to throw myself at the first presentable stranger. As for your hero, he would probably be equally amiable if I were a middle-aged spinster with buck teeth and bi-focals!"

But, later that night, lying in bed, she found herself wondering if she would see Nicolas again when she went to the Casa Vieja the following day.

CHAPTER THREE AT nine o'clock the next morning, Francesca set out for the Casa Vieja. She walked part of the way with Vasco who, having milked his father's six cows, was taking them up to the steep but luscious pastures further along the valley. The cows and their calves led the way, with Vasco's capable cattle dog urging them on, and she and the boy following behind. At noon, telling the time by the position of the sun, Vasco would bring the herd back to the village, and then at three they would return to pasture land until evening fell. Higher up the mountainside was the more rugged land where sheep grazed. When the breeze was in the right direction, the distant tinkling of their bells could be heard. Among the Andorran sheep were flocks from Spain which had been brought over the frontier because their own land was too parched and arid to support them during the summer. In the autumn, before the pass into France was closed by snow, Senor Roja sent his sheep to winter at a vineyard in France. Francesca reached the Casa Vieja soon after half past nine, and the first person she saw was Margarita. The girl was sitting on the grass at the front of the house, keeping an eye on about eight or nine small children who were playing with simple toys or scrambling about on a climbing frame. As they greeted each other in French, Francesca thought that Margarita did not look very well. Her cheeks, rosy the night before, were very pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes. Some of the children were too absorbed in their play to give Francesca more than a glance. Others stared at her, fingers in mouths, and sidled closer. Margarita was dealing with a stormy tussle between two little girls who both wanted to play with a dilapidated rag doll, when a small boy toppled off the climbing frame. He lay oh the grass, growing purple in

the face as he drew in his breath for an ear-splitting bellow. Francesca picked, him up and spoke in the bracing tone she had heard her sister-in-law use when her nephew was more frightened than hurt. "Well, that was a hard bump," she said cheerfully. "Shall I rub your back and make it better? There ... how's that? All well again?" The child glowered tearfully for a moment, was distracted from his woes by the jingle of the narrow silver bangles on her wrist, and put out his hand to touch them. Then another child approached to look at her watch. When, a few minutes later, Pilar appeared, Francesca was sitting on the grass with the first little boy trying on her bracelets, the second holding her watch to his ear, and a third child was imparting some important but incomprehensible information about his miniature wheelbarrow. "Good morning. Miss Cornel. You have made some friends already, I see," Pilar said, smiling down at her, "Come, the older children are having their milk now, and we will have coffee with Doctor Rador. He is feeling better this morning, I am glad to say." Francesca scrambled to her feet and gently retrieved her possessions. Pilar called something in Catalan to Margarita, and they walked across the grass towards the south side of the house. "Those are the dormitories,' Pilar said, indicating the four long chalet-style huts which had been built in line a little distance from the house and which were connected to it by a covered way. "Two are for boys, two for girls. The babies you have just seen sleep in the house so that I can go to them if they wake in the night. Sometimes Nicolas attends to them when they have had a bad dream and cry. out. He is as good with children as he is with animals."

A burst of youthful laughter came from the rear of the house, and, as they turned the corner, Francesca saw youngsters of various ages sitting on benches behind several long trestle tables in the shade of a tree. A large blackboard was nailed to the trunk of the tree. "As you see, in summer we have lessons out of doors," Pilar went on. "For the colder weather we have made a classroom in one of the barns, but I believe children should be in the sun as much as possible. At this time of year they also have their meals in the garden." At a signal from Doctor Rador, who was with them, the youngsters stopped chattering and laughing and turned to face the two women approaching them. They all stood up. "This is Miss Cornel, a visitor from England," Pilar told them, in English. There was an uneven chorus of "Good morning, Miss Cornel." The boys bowed, and the girls bobbed. "Good morning," Francesca answered, smiling. Looking at their healthy sunburned faces, she found it hard to believe that these youngsters were the unwanted jetsam of a dozen different countries, born in the squalor and misery of slums. "When they have finished their milk they are free to run about for half an hour, so we will leave them to enjoy themselves," Pilar said, as they were joined by the Hungarian. They had coffee on the patio where they had dined the night before, but there were only three cups on the tray brought by Florentina, the stout Spanish cook. Pilar explained that her grandmother usually stayed in bed until noon and Nicolas was up at one of the hordes, attending to some sick cattle.

'What made you choose the Valleys for your holiday, Miss Cornel?" she asked, while they were watching some of the children playing leap-frog some distance away. "Oh, please, won't you rail me Francesca? Well, I came here mainly because my father always meant to come back." Francesca explained the circumstances of Richard Cornel's visit to the Valleys. "Ah, yes, there were many such escapes. In fact it is because of an airman like your father that we were able to start a children's home." Pilar refilled their coffee cups and settled back in her chair. Today she was wearing a white cotton shirt and a spotted dirndl skirt which suited her better than the fussy rayon dress. But Francesca would have liked to see her in a simple linen dress in a vivid shade of blue or coral-red. "You may have wondered how we have enough money to support the children," Pilar began. "We grow most of our food, of course, but there are clothes and school books and many other things to be bought. And the children cannot stay in the Valleys all their lives. Many native Andorrans have to emigrate to make a living." Francesca nodded. "Yes, so Senora Roja has told me." "Long ago, when this idea first came to me, I knew it was impossible without more money than we were ever likely to possess," the Spanish girl continued. "It seemed a hopeless daydream. However, some years ago a young American pilot came to Andorra for a holiday, like yourself, and fell in love with the place. Unhappily, soon after his return to the States he was killed in a plane crash. We learned this from his parents, who came to Europe a year later and sought us out. Their son had told them about us. They stayed here several days. They were

a nice, simple couple. One could see that their son had meant everything to them." She paused for a moment, then said, "I talked to Mrs. Benson about my scheme, not hinting for help, you understand, because we had no idea that they were so rich. They were not at all as one imagines American millionaires to be. I think they had both come from very humble beginnings and they had never lost their simplicity of heart. It was a complete surprise to learn that Mr. Benson was the president of a great chain of stores all over the United States. Anyway his wife told him about my idea and they insisted on helping. At first I did not feel it would be right to accept their offer. But they said it would be a practical memorial to their son. As they would never have grandchildren they would like to feel they were helping other people's grandchildren. 'A stake in the future' Mr. Benson called it. I think that is a wonderful way of putting it. Every month I write, and sometimes send photographs, to let them know how we are progressing. Next year they are hoping, to visit us again. It is possible, later on, that Mr. Benson will be able to arrange for some of the children to go to America and get good jobs there." At this point, Florentina called Doctor Rador into the house, and Pilar glanced at her watch to see if it was time for the children to return to their lessons. "We have been very lucky, but not all our problems are solved yet," she said. "We need a larger staff, but it is difficult to get anyone to come here. Few people care to live so far from civilisation." "But it's so beautiful here ... so peaceful," Francesca objected. .Pilar smiled. "An atmosphere of peace is not usually an important requirement with people who are young and still unmarried," she remarked, in a dry tone. "And you are seeing the Valleys at their best.

They are beautiful in the winter snows, too - but many people would feel cut off from life here without television or any social contacts." Doctor Rador came back. "I have had to send Margarita to bed, Pilar," he said frowning. "It seems she has been sick several times and has a pain in her stomach. I think it is only a minor upset, but she cannot recall eating anything which might have caused it, so we must consider the possibility of appendicitis. If the pain is still severe this afternoon, we may have to take her down to the hospital.' "Oh, dear ... and Juana is not here today. I will have . to get one of the older girls to look after the babies," Pilar said anxiously. "Could I stand in for Margarita?" Francesca offered. "I should be glad to mind the babies for you if it would be a help." Pilar hesitated. "Oh, no, it would not be fair to ask you," she said, shaking her head. "Why not? I have nothing else to do. I should enjoy it," Francesca assured her. "You are certain? The difficulty is that the older girls have a cookery lesson with Florentina from now until lunch time. They love learning to cook and it will be a great disappointment for the one who must miss it. It is very kind of you to offer to help. If you are sure..." "Of course!' Francesca said, rising. "It is a very small service when you have all been so kind to me." Half an hour later, she and her small charges were hand in hand, jigging round in a ring to the tune of "I had a little nut tree" when, across the grass, she saw Nicolas coming towards them. Francesca stopped singing, and the circle broke up as several of the children ran to meet him.

"Good morning. I hear you have been co-opted on to the staff," he said, smiling down at her. "However, I have just had a word with Miklos and he says Margarita is improving. The appendix scare seems to be over." "Oh, good, I'm glad she is feeling better. Although" - smiling down at the children scampering round them - "I've been enjoying myself." "Your crown is crooked," he told her, with an amused glance at her hair. Earlier, to entertain the children, Francesca had made daisy-chains with some of the wild marguerites growing in the long grass under the trees. She had forgotten that she was wearing a garland herself and quickly took it off, feeling a little foolish. "It's time for the little ones to have lunch. Ill give you a hand with them. Afterwards they go to bed for an hour and we can have our own meal in peace," Nicolas said. "What about Senora Roja? Won't she wonder what has happened to me?" Francesca said anxiously. "We are on the telephone. Hadn't you noticed?" Nicolas indicated some overhead lines sloping down towards the valley. "But the Rojas are not," she said. "There is one house in every village which has a phone in case of emergencies. They will take a message." He called the children together and began shepherding them towards the house. There was a ground-floor wash-room where the children were cleaned and tidied before their meal. They climbed on chairs to reach the adult-sized hand basins and, by the time she had washed four pairs of grubby little tends and brushed four tousled heads of hair, Francesca

felt she could do with some tidying up herself. Nicolas had spruced the other five tots with the brisk efficiency of experience. Watching him tie a loose hair ribbon for one of the little girls - both sexes wore gay T-shirts and cotton shorts - she found something curiously touching about this tall, dark, tough-looking man dealing so easily and unselfconsciously with the tiny children. The children needed no persuasion to eat up their lunch, which began with mugs of savoury broth followed by salad and home-cured ham, and fruit with thick fresh cream. "You lode very different from the day you arrived. Do you feel up to. a trip to the capital tomorrow?" Nicolas asked, while they watched the children eating. "Oh, I thought you weren't going till next week. Yes, I'd love to come. I do feel different - as if I had never had anything wrong with me," she agreed, brushing back a loose strand of hair." He caught hold of her wrist. "You've damaged your nails. How did that happen?" he asked. Francesca looked at the two broken nails and shrugged. "I was trying to mend a toy. It doesn't matter. I can file them down later." He examined her hand for a moment, his thumb moving lightly over the smooth soft skin before he let it go again. His expression was quite impersonal. He might have been testing the texture of a piece of material, or the sharpness of a blade. Yet the effect on her, Francesca realised with a shock, was as if his touch had been a light caress. Her cheeks suddenly hot, she bent forward to help one of the boys spoon up the last mouthful of fruit juice and cream.

After lunch, accustomed to their routine and showing signs of drowsiness, the children climbed up to their dormitory. Shoes off, each with a stuffed animal or doll to cuddle, they settled down for their nap. "This is our bathroom. I expect you'd like to tidy up," said Nicolas, opening a door along the landing. Francesca thanked him, shut herself in the bathroom and leaned against the door for a moment or two. She was still feeling disturbed by the incident during" the tots' lunch, and by a guilty realisation that her offer to stand proxy for Margarita had not been prompted by a disinterested desire to be helpful. It had been a chance to stay at the Casa Vieja until Nicolas came back. As she combed her hair and wiped off her lipstick with a tissue, she told herself that she was behaving like an impressionable schoolgirl, and it must stop at once. Anyone would think she had never met an attractive man before. . Have you? ... A man like Nicolas? a voice seemed to whisper in her ear. She drew a fresh outline with her little sable lip brush, filled it in, and let the colour set for some moments. , It was true, she realised, frowning at her reflection in the glass above the basin. She had never met a man like Nicolas before. Johnny had been handsome and light-hearted. Paul, with his long gaunt face and peaked faun's eyebrows, had been rather an ugly man. But when he wasn't being curt or sarcastic, he could charm a bird out of a tree. All the men who had taken her about before she became involved with Paul had been attractive in some way. But not one of them had this strangely compelling quality which distinguished Nicolas de Vega - a quality which she knew now she had recognised

the very first time she had looked at him in that little drapery shop in Las Escaldes. "Oh, stop thinking about the man. He's not really so extraordinary," she told herself impatiently. Somewhere outside the house a handbell clanged, and she quickly blotted her lips, powdered, and smoothed her eyebrows. The trestle tables had been rearranged end to end and covered with crisp gingham cloths when she found her way out of the back of the house a few minutes later. Vases of wild flowers had been placed at intervals along this one long table, and between them there were baskets filled with hunks of crusty bread, crocks of butter still dewy from the churn and bottles of red wine. "I expect you are hungry after your exertions," Pilar said, taking Francesca to sit beside her at one end of the table. Dona Maria was at the other end with Florentina next to her, and the two men sat facing each other at the halfway mark. "Nicolas tells me you have been teaching the infants some new games," Pilar remarked, after grace had been said and they were waiting for the youngsters on table duty to serve the food. "Not really - we were only dancing round in a ring and I was trying to remember some nursery rhymes and songs." Francesca explained. "Nicolas thought you were very good with them: One needs a special flair to get on well with very small children. Unfortunately Juana is often too impatient, and Margarita is not firm when they are troublesome. The little ones really need more individual attention than we can give them at present. What a pity you cannot stay here and become a permanent member of the staff," Pilar said jokingly.

During the meal, Francesca did not allow herself to look beyond the fair freckle-faced boy on her right and the two pigtailed girls opposite. They had all been at the Casa Vieja since its inception as a children's home and spoke remarkably good English. "There has to be a common language, and English was the obvious choice," Pilar explained. "But we do not want the children to forget their own languages and so we have a short period every day when, as far as possible, they form national groups and speak in their native tongue. We don't know yet if this system will work satisfactorily, but we hope so. Fortunately both Nicolas and I were brought up to be bi-lingual in Castilian and English, and we also speak Catalan and French. Miklos has German and some Italian, so between us, we can usually make ourselves understood by new arrivals." "You make me feel horribly ignorant with only my stumbling schoolgirl French," Francesca said ruefully. "It has improved with talking to Senora Roja, but it's still far from fluent." After lunch the children cleared the table, and presently one of the boys brought the adults their coffee on the patio. "They take turns to wash the dishes, and the boys as well as the girls do their share of the other domestic work. The big boys help to bath the little ones at night, and they must also learn to sew on buttons and to wash and iron their clothes. We train them to be excellent husbands," Pilar said laughingly. She refused to allow Francesca to look after the infants during the afternoon, and deputed two senior girls to take charge of them. "I will run you back to the village," Nicolas said, rising.

"I thank you, but I would really prefer to walk," Francesca said politely. "It is too hot for you to walk. You don't want to tire yourself." "I don't mind the heat, and it's not far. I haven't had nearly enough exercise lately." She smiled as she spoke, but he must have recognised the undertone of coolness in her tone as he raised an eyebrow and gave her a searching look. She thought he was going to force her to accept a lift, but after a moment he shrugged and said carelessly, "As you wish. I will call for you about one o'clock tomorrow if that is convenient." Francesca had momentarily forgotten their projected outing and she was tempted to say she had changed her mind and preferred not to go after all. But, as she could not think of any feasible excuse to get out of it, she said evenly, "Yes, perfectly convenient, thanks." But she wished she had never accepted his invitation. Because now she had a strong premonition that, if she were not very careful, she was going to make a fool of herself again.

The next day, as soon as she had finished her lunch, Francesca ran upstairs to change for the drive to Andorra la Vieja. First she took a simple lemon chemise dress out of the armoire and hung it on the door. The dress had an easy flared skirt, and a matching cashmere jacket. It was ideal for a hot afternoon's sight-seeing and the drive back to Valyos in the cooler evening air. But, as she started to unfasten the zipper, Francesca looked at her nails and- frowned suddenly. She hung the lemon dress back in the

cupboard and took down a much more sophisticated jade shantung trouser suit. She was waiting outside the Rojas' house when the jeep swept past the public fountain and drew up alongside her. Nicolas swung down from the driving seat. "A woman who is not only punctual but ready before time is a very rare bird. I'm sorry if I've kept you waiting," he said, taking her round the bonnet. "Only a couple of minutes." Francesca climbed into the passenger seat and settled herself. A few minutes later they had left the village behind and were on their way. Apart from pointing out one or two notable features of the passing scene, he did not talk much on the drive. Once, when he stopped the jeep to allow a flock of sheep to amble past on a narrow stretch of road, Francesca was aware that , he had turned his head to look at her. She affected not to notice his regard, but she was suddenly very conscious that, behind her smoked sunglasses, her eyelids were expertly made up with a blend of jade and iris shadow, and a band of taupe liner above her lashes. It was the first time since she had come to Andorra that she had applied her normal daytime make-up and, in London, it would have been as unremarkable as a model hat or a mink jacket. But here in the Valleys it would be noticed, perhaps stared at, and she had put it on for the same reason she was wearing the extremely chic shantung trouser suit - because today she felt a perverse desire to make Nicolas critical of her. Last night before going to bed, she had done something which had later seemed a silly and rather humiliating bid for his favour. Now she wanted to counteract that foolish impulse by deliberately inviting his disapproval.

"After we have seen the Casa la Vail, perhaps you would like to do some shopping in Escaldes. I have one or two business calls to make, but they should not take more than an hour. I thought we might have dinner at an hotel before we come home," Nicolas suggested, when they had reached the main road to the town. "Yes, if you like," Francesca agreed, without enthusiasm. The ancient capital was not far beyond Escaldes and seemed to consist of a small plaza and a few side streets. Nicolas suggested they should have an iced drink after the dusty drive, and in the cool of a small bar-cum-cafe Francesca took off the white chiffon scarf which she had been wearing, wimple-fashion, over her hair. Shaking out her long sleek bob, she removed her sunglasses. But Nicolas did not seem to notice her painted eyelids or, if he did, showed no reaction. "Is there a bookshop in Escaldes?" she asked. "I could do with something to read in bed. I only brought a few ' magazines with me." "You can get most of the French and American periodicals here, but I doubt if you'll find any books in English, I can lend you some tomorrow. What kind of thing do you like?" "Oh, anything. Novels, biographies, travel books." The barman brought their drinks and a pack of French Gauloises for Nicolas. He lit a cigarette and said, "I would not have thought you were the type to spend many evenings with an improving book." There was a gleam of amusement, faintly derisive, in his grey eyes. Francesca sipped her drink. "Why not?" she enquired evenly. "There are usually livelier pastimes for a girl with your looks."

The remark could have been a compliment, but Francesca did not think so. There was now more than a hint of mockery in his expression. "What you mean, I suppose, is that if a girl has passable looks she is invariably low on intelligence," she returned coolly. Nicolas grinned. "It's not uncommon," he agreed. 7 Francesca drew in a breath, but managed to check an acid retort. "There are always exceptions to the rule, of course," Nicolas added equably. "If you long to be admired for your intellect can't you tone down your appearance slightly?" She knew he was baiting her and that the best riposte would be to laugh and take the remark in good part. But she could not be certain that there was not an element of truth in the thrust, and the possibility that Nicolas really did think she was decorative but not too bright mentally made her secretly furious. She was provoked into saying sweetly, "There is a similar rule for men, isn't there? I mean that brain and brawn rarely go together. But I suppose one should try not to generalise." Nicolas laughed. "Touche! Come, we will go and look . at the Casa de la Vail before we come to blows." The turreted sixteenth-century building which was the seat of the Andorran government, and also a prison and museum, was unlocked for them by the curator with an enormous key weighing seven pounds. Above the ancient door was a stone plaque with the arms of Andorra carved on it. Nicolas showed Francesca the Council Chamber an^ the cabinet containing the archives and the treasury which could only be opened

when all six locks were unfastened simultaneously by keys kept in each of the country's six parishes. "So, short of blowing the thing to bits, it can't be burgled," he said, with a smile. "In any case no one but the Councillors knows what is in there. The extent of the national funds is a closely guarded secret." The apartment which Francesca found most interesting was the kitchen with its battery of huge old-fashioned copper utensils. A hole in the roof had served as a chimney in the days when cooking fires had blackened the walls. "In the old days, before the highway was laid, the Councillors travelled down on mules and had to stay here until their business was finished," Nicolas explained. When they returned to Escaldes, Nicolas went off on his business calls and Francesca wandered around looking . at the tall balconied houses and at the shop windows filled with luxury goods, from all over Europe. In the main square she watched housewives drawing buckets 0f steaming water from a fountain fed by the thermal springs and, further on, in a cobbled side street, she stopped to sniff the delicious fragrance of coffee. A travelling vendor, sweat pouring down his face, was roasting beans in a large ball-shaped container over a roaring brazier. She had arranged to meet Nicolas in the plaza, but, some time before the hour was up, she had seen everything there was to see and her feet were beginning to ache. Although there .were no other women there, she sat down at a vacant table for two in a pavement cafe and ordered a limonada. Presently a young man asked permission to take the other chair.

He spoke in English, but as he had a camera case slung over his shoulder Francesca took him for a Spanish holiday-maker. A strong smell of pomade wafted from his curly black hair and he had very bold black eyes. "You are American, senorita?" he asked, offering her a cigarette. Francesca glanced up from the copy of Elle which she had bought. "No, thank you, senor. I don't smoke," she said crisply. The pungent scent of his pomade was slightly sickening, and she did not care for the way his eyes travelled ova: her. "You are English?" he persisted. "Yes." "Ah, I think you are English when I first see you walking in the street. You look sad, senorita. You are lonely, si? I also am alone. Perhaps we-" Francesca had been pointedly turning the pages of the magazine. Now, when he stopped short suddenly, she looked up. Nicolas had arrived. Towering over the startled young Spaniard, a menacing glitter in his eyes, he said something in Castilian. Muttering a nervous apology, the 'youth sidled ©lit of his chair and hurried away. Nicolas watched him disappear round a corner, then sat down beside Francesca. "I must apologise," he said formally. "I hope you were not too alarmed."

"Not in the least," she said cheerfully, amused by the youth's lightning change of attitude when he had found Nicolas glaring down at him. "Forgive me - I had momentarily forgotten that English girls can deal with these contingencies themselves," Nicolas said, his tone sardonic. "I didn't mean that... I was very glad to see you. It's always rather horrid being pestered," she said hastily. "But I wasn't really frightened, because he was only a youth, and there are plenty of people about. Now if someone like you had tried to pick me up, I would have panicked," she said mischievously. The hardness went out of his expression, and he smiled. But after he had ordered two-coffees, he said lazily, "You joke - but what makes you sure you can trust me? It is a long and lonely drive back to Valyos tonight- Surely you have been warned about predatory foreigners?" "Yes, but you are half English - not that that's always a guarantee of chivalry," she added dryly. "I may have an English regard for animals, but my attitude to women is entirely Spanish," he said. "Well, there you are then - I've always heard that Spanish men are extremely respectful towards unmarried girls," she answered lightly. "In Spain young girls of good family are so sheltered it is more or less impossible to be otherwise. They would certainly never be permitted to go abroad unchaperoned. Girls from other countries where there is more freedom command less respect." "You sound as if you think it's better for girls to be sheltered like that. Do you?" she asked curiously. "No, I wouldn't say that precisely - but I don't believe in women being too emancipated," he said thoughtfully. "For instance, I am inclined to

agree with my grandmother that it is a mistake for a girl to embark on a career which may later conflict with her marriage. If it is something such as your secretarial post, which is chiefly a matter of filling in time until marriage, then there is no problem." Francesca flushed and looked away. She had forgotten that she had deceived him about her job. It occurred to her that this was an opportunity to retrieve the lie. But before she could think what to say, Nicolas said, "Let's stroll along to the hotel, shall we? There is a terrace overlooking the river which is a more pleasant place to sit. Most of the hotels keep Spanish hours and dinner is not served until nine, but the owner of tins place is a friend of mine, so we will be able to get a meal earlier." It was very restful on the quiet terrace with the waters of the Valira flowing past below the balustrade. The proprietor bowed over Francesca's hand when Nicolas introduced her, and suggested that they should have some sherry and tapas to stimulate their appetites. "What are tapas ?" she asked, when he had gone to fetch them. "They are the Spanish version of cocktail snacks," Nicolas explained. "The cook here comes from Barcelona, so the cuisine is mainly Spanish. Shall I choose a meal for you, as you are not familiar with Spanish food?" "Oh, yes, if you would, please - but no snails," she said smiling. The tapas were served on a wooden platter, and Francesca tried one of each kind. Some, like the anchovies and stuffed olives, were familiar, but the taste of a highly seasoned sausage called chorizo and of the smoked ham was new and delicious.

"You've altered your nails, I see," Nicolas said suddenly, as she took another titbit of chorizo. She glanced at her nails, now cut short to the tips of her fingers and painted with colourless varnish. "I had the impression you didn't care for long lacquered nails," she answered. "Is that why you changed yours - to please me?" he asked, with a quizzical expression. "No, obviously not, or you would not be outraging my rustic sensibilities with those provocative siren's eyes." "They are not intended to be provocative," she said indignantly. "This happens to be my ordinary everyday , make-up. I'm sorry if you don't approve, but I -" "I like it," he cut in easily. "I have no objection to a . woman enhancing her looks providing the result is not a mask. I also like the scent you are wearing today - and don't tell me that is pot provocative. What is it?" "It's Worth's Vers Tol," she said shortly. Nicolas kept a straight face, but his eyes glinted with laughter and, unwillingly, she had to smile. Presently, while a table was laid for them at one end of the Terrace, Francesca went inside the hotel to freshen up/ When she returned, Nicolas was standing by the balustrade looking down at the river, his arms crossed over his chest, a rather sombre expression on his face. She watched him for a moment before joining him. He was thirty-three and, in spite of his sister's teasing remark that he was a confirmed bachelor, there must have been some women in his life, she reflected. But what women? Andorran girls married young and did not engage in

two or three light-hearted love affairs before they finally settled down as was the custom elsewhere. Besides, .bonny as they were, it did not seem probable that raw country girls like Juana and Margarita would have any serious appeal for him. But what other women did he meet? The summer visitors? Did he make a habit of singling out a likely-looking tourist and being as flatteringly attentive as he had been to her? Was she just one of a succession of girls who had dined a deux on this terrace with him, and perhaps lost their heads or hearts in a moment of holiday madness? There could scarcely be a setting more conducive to romantic folly, Francesca thought, shivering slightly, although the air was still comfortably warm. On every side the mountains rose steeply to a sky now tinged with rose and gold from the setting sun. The few cirrus clouds were no more than pearly veils suspended above the highest peaks. The soft rush of water and the faint echo of a sheep's bells were the only sounds. In such a place and with such a companion - so tall and dark and intensely virile, his lean bronzed face made doubly arresting by the incongruity of his eyes - few women would be able to keep a firm rein on their emotions. "But I'm going to be one of them," Francesca decided resolutely, as she walked forward. "Where does this river go?" she asked brightly, leaning over the balustrade. "To Spain," Nicolas told her, turning to pull out a chair at the dining table for her. At this moment a waiter appeared with their first course.

"This is called gazpacho. It is made from tomatoes and cucumbers crushed in oil," Nicolas explained, as the man ladled the iced soup from a tureen. Next came tortillas which were rolled omelettes, served straight from the pan and of a wonderfully light consistency. "Do you like cooking?" Nicolas asked, as they ate a paella which bore no relationship to the soggy rice messes prepared by some of Francesca's friends who had been to Spain for holidays. This paella was made of succulent saffron-coloured rice flavoured by a dozen different ingredients including tender chicken livers, mushrooms, prawns, both red and green pimentoes, onions and olives. "I've never had much chance to be domesticated," she said. "My mother died when I was a baby, so I was brought up by an unmarried aunt until I was old enough to go to boarding school. Later on, I lived with my father during the holidays, but he had a very efficient housekeeper who didn't encourage me to experiment in her kitchen. Now I share a fiat with another girl and we have most of our meals out, except at weekends. Then Susan usually cooks and I do the cleaning." "What does this Susan do? Is she also a secretary?" he asked. "No, she's a model. She poses for photographs in fashion magazines." "You had better not mention her to my grandmother," Nicolas said dryly. "She has some very old-fashioned views on certain matters, and I suspect she would consider being a model highly immodest. That was why I asked if you were an actress the other night. We can never convince her that, nowadays, the theatre is a respectable profession." "Do you regard modelling as a rather dubious one?" Francesca enquired, her tone casual.

He shrugged. "I am sure your friend is charming, but I would be inclined to agree with Grandmother if, for example, Pilar had wished to take up such work." "I can't see why," she said mildly. "In England thousands of girls want to be models and no one raises an eyebrow." "Possibly, but this is not England," he reminded her, and changed the subject by asking if she liked the wine he had ordered. The pudding was a sweet almond-paste confection called turrones which Francesca found rather sickly, and after they had eaten it,-they returned to the other chairs for coffee. Nicolas lit a cigar, crossed his long legs and talked about the festival of Notre Dame de Meritxell, the patron saint of Andorra, which took place in September. Listening to him, it occurred to Francesca that his manner up to now was far from that of a man who was out to make a quick practised conquest. And when, a moment later, he shifted the position of his chair, it was not to draw closer to her, but so that he would not have to turn his head to watch the sky to the west glowing crimson as the sun sank behind the towering peaks. They had several cups of coffee and finished the bottle of scented Rioja wine, and then Nicolas said it was time to start back to Valyos. He said very little during the drive and Francesca felt sleepy after the large meal she had eaten. "Thank you very much for taking me. It was most interesting, and the dinner was delicious," she said, when he stopped the jeep outside the Rojas' house.

"El gusto es mio, senorita," he said, in Castilian, after he had come round to help her out. "It was a pleasure. .Goodnight, Francesca." "Goodnight, Nicolas." She watched him drive away with a feeling that it had been a very inconclusive sort of day. But what conclusion she had expected to reach she was not certain.

In the morning, when Francesca came back from a walk, Senora Roja handed her a parcel of books which Nicolas had delivered a quarter of an hour earlier. The following day there was no sign of the jeep jolting along the tracks within sight of the village. But the next afternoon, when Francesca was debating whether to walk up to the Casa Vieja to see Pilar, she heard a motor approaching. Hurrying out on to her balcony, she heard the engine stop close by. A few seconds later Nicolas appeared round the corner of the house. "Hello, I'm up here," she called down to him. "I am going up to one of the hordes. Would you care to come with me?" he asked. Senora Roja had been teaching her a smattering of Spanish. "Me gustaria mucho, senor" she said carefully. Nicolas looked surprised and amused. "You won't be able to wear smart clothes today," he warned her. "I want to take a short cut which means climbing a cliff, so put on something old, will you ?" Ten minutes later, in a striped cotton T-shirt and well- cut cotton pants belted low on her hips, Francesca ran downstairs. She had sprinkled

some talcum powder into 1 her white cotton socks and was wearing lace-up canvas loafers with non-slip soles. "Thank you for the books. I'm taking good care of them," she said, as he switched on the engine. "Let me know when you've finished them and I'll lend you some more. Who has been teaching you Spanish? Senora Roja?" "Yes, just a few phrases. I expect my accent is terrible. Did you really understand what I said?" "Certainly I did. I'll teach you some more while we are having our meriandas" "I know what that is ... afternoon tea." After they left the jeep, it was about an hour's climb up to the horde. Francesca found it fairly hard going, but Nicolas, even with a knapsack slung over his shoulder, showed no sign of exertion. The cliff he had mentioned was only about twenty feet high and not difficult to climb with his help. But when at last they reached the lonely byre she was glad to sit down on the grass and catch her breath. "Where are the sick cows?" she asked, when he showed her the cool dark interior of the building. It was divided into three parts. There was a stable, a fodder store and a room for a herdsman to sleep in. The windows were no more than slits in the old stone walls. "It is not in use at the moment. I didn't come up on a professional call. I thought you'd like to see the view from this height," Nicolas said casually, as they went outside again.

And it was certainly a magnificent view, with the houses of Valyos looking no bigger than matchboxes and several other villages in sight. They sat on the grass again and Nicolas opened his pack and produced bread, sausage, cream cheese and apples. He had also brought a Catalan porron of red wine. This was a glass drinking vessel shaped rather like a carafe with a bent neck, and having a pointed spout on one side. Nicolas cut the bread and sausage with his clasp knife and handed it to Francesca for her to spread the cheese. She had had a generous helping of Senora Roja's rabbit cocida at noon, but the climb had made her hungry again, and the fresh crusty bread and strong ewe's milk cheese seemed to taste particularly good. "There's a lot to be said for a simple life, isn't there?" she said dreamily, sitting cross-legged, her eyes on a distant peak. "I wouldn't mind staying up here all summer as long as the weather held." Nicolas cut a chunk of sausage for her. "Have your employers been holding your job open for you?" he asked. She had bitten into the sausage, so she did not have to answer him at once. "No, they... they had to replace me," she said. "So at the moment I'm a free agent. I'm not forced to go back next weekend. "Why go then? Or can't you afford to stay longer?" "No, it isn't a question of money. I could manage another week or two. But I can't go on idling for ever." She glanced at him. "Pilar offered me a job at the Casa Vieja the other day. She was only joking, of course, but I think if I were the sort of person who could be really useful and if she had meant it seriously, I would have been tempted to accept. There's a kind of magic about the Valleys, I think. I'm sure I shall suffer terrible bouts of nostalgia when I'm back in London and it's pouring with rain."

"It rains here, too, sometimes." "Yes, I suppose it does, but you don't have to fight for taxis or struggle through the rush-hour on the Underground. It can't be that awful depressing city rain. Oh, don't let's talk about it. I've still got ten days in the sun. I don't want to think about going home yet/' He lifted the porron. "Have you tried drinking from one of these things yet?" She shook her head. "You'd better demonstrate. It looks rather complicated." "Not really - you'll soon get the knack of it. " He lifted the vessel above his head and a fine jet of wine shot out of the spout and into his mouth. "Now you try," he said. "Wait a moment — use this cloth as a bib. You won't want to stain your jersey." He tucked a cloth from his pack round her neck and showed her the distance at which to hold the porron away from her. Francesca managed to direct the stream of wine into her mouth, but she did not swallow it fast enough, and choked. Nicolas patted her on the back until she had recovered her breath. "I'll hold it and you concentrate on swallowing," he said, grinning. This was more successful, but after several gulps Francesca signalled for him to stop. "Had enough?" he asked. He was very close to her, his free hand still resting against her back. "Yes, thanks," she said huskily, suddenly intensely conscious of his nearness and his hand between her shoulder blades.

Nicolas moved away. "When you want some more, drink it from the spout," he said, tossing her an apple. When she had finished the apple, Francesca lay down on her back and cupped her hands beneath her head. She closed her eyes and listened to a cricket, chirping in the grass and to the soporific bubbling of a spring further down the mountain. There was nothing to break the Arcadian peace of their eyrie - no droning aeroplane, no revving of cars, no blaring transistor radio. Presently she heard Nicolas strike a match and the rich aroma of cigar smoke drifted past her nostrils. She must have fallen asleep. When she opened her eyes and blinked at the sunlight, Nicolas was also lying down. She sat up and looked at him. He was lying with one wrist across his eye, the other arm lax in the grass. His chest rose and fell in the slow steady rhythm of sleep. Francesca took off her socks and shoes and wriggled her bare toes. Then she lay propped on one elbow watching him. He had unbuttoned his shirt, and his chest was as brown as his face and arms. She thought she had never seen anyone who looked as clean as he did, or whose hands looked as if they could clench, into formidable fists or be t infinitely gentle. He was not asleep.- Suddenly he moved his wrist, and she saw that he was wide awake and had probably been aware of her scrutiny. She jerked upright and began to pull on her socks, a wave of hot colour suffusing her face. When she had knotted her shoelaces and was pretending to lode at the view, Nicolas said quietly, "You said you did not want to think about

going back to England. Was it only the thought of the rain that depressed you, or something else?" "What do you mean? What else?" she asked, in a low voice. "I don't know. I had the impression that you were unhappy as well as ill when you first came here." "I was depressed because I was run down. There was no other reason." "Is that a polite way of telling me to mind my own business?" "No, of course not - it's just a statement of fact." He sat up, offered the porron, and when she shook her head, took another long draught himself. "You still have a worried look sometimes. I thought you might be missing someone," he said. "May J have another apple?" She took one from the pack. "I miss my father quite often," she said slowly. "Apart from my brother and Susan I have no ... no other attachments." She saw his eyebrow tilting and added hastily, "You said you were going to teach me some more Spanish." His eyes had narrowed slightly and she regretted the abruptness of her tone. But he only said, "So I did, but I think it is time we started to climb down. Miklos is going into Escaldes tonight, so I must have the jeep back by six."

Francesca did not see him again until the evening of the fair at Ordino, and in the meantime she tried hard not to think about him. She despised herself for teetering on the brink of another lunatic infatuation when it was only a matter of months since the disastrous entanglement with Paul. For she knew now that what she had felt for Paul Landon had not been love, but only the most transient kind of physical attraction, feverishly intense' while it lasted, but leaving nothing but pain and regret after the flame had burned out. And if it had been madness to fall for Paul - with whom she had at least certain things in common - it would be an even wilder folly to succumb to someone like Nicolas. So she thought during the daytime. But at night, lying awake, her face turned towards the open window and the stars, it was not as easy to be coldly analytical. She dressed, for the fair in a tangerine linen frock with a flared skirt and shoes suitable for street dancing. Senora Roja said she might need a warm wrap after dark, so she took an Arraq cardigan of thick cream wool and a flame silk scarf for her head. Miklos Rador was at the wheel when the jeep arrived, with Juana and Margarita behind him. He explained that there was not room in the jeep for all six of them, so Nicolas and Pilar were riding to the fair on horseback. The village square was festooned with home-made paper garlands when they arrived, and the shooting match which began the festivities was already in progress. Juana and Margarita quickly disappeared into the crowd, and as there was as yet no sign of the others, Francesca and Miklos watched the shooting. The musicians had just struck up the first dance when Pilar appeared. Nicolas was talking to one of the local farmers and would join them presently, she said.

Francesca's first partner was a stocky Andorran youth, resplendent in his best suit with plus-four-styled trousers, who had been egged on to. approach her by several other lads. She had seen this happening out of the corner of her eye, and had also intercepted some chilly glances from the village girls. The band was composed of a fiddler, a drummer and , three accordionists and the music set a lively pace. All round the square sat the matrons and grandmothers, gossiping and beaming proudly at their offspring. Francesca danced with Miklos and with a wizened little man who looked old enough to be a great-grandfather but was very uprightly on his feet. Then as the fiddler gave the signal for another dance to begin, someone touched her arm and asked, "Quiere bailar conmigo, senorita?" "Oh... hello, Nicolas," she said, startled. "I was asking you to dance. You must say 'Me gustana bailar, senor' unless, of course, you don't want to dance with me," he said, smiling. She drew in her breath. "Me gustaria bailsr, senor," she repeated, not quite steadily. He put a hand on her waist, and instantly Francesca experienced such a dizzying sense of delight that she could only thank heaven they were not in a London night club where the lights would be low, the music languorous, and he would have to hold her closely in the circle of his arm. The fair would go on until the small hours, but they left about eleven o'clock. Margarita had an aunt who lived in the village, and the two Andorran girls had arranged to spend the night at her house so that they could stay till the dancing ended.

"Perhaps you would like to drive Miss Cornel home, Nicolas? I will ride back with Pilar," Miklos offered. Francesca saw the Spanish girl's eyes light up, and hoped that her own response to this suggestion was less evident. She felt intoxicated, carefree - as if she had been drinking champagne. Her determination to steel herself against Nicolas's dangerous magnetism had gone whistling down the wind at the moment he had first asked her to dance. "A good idea," Nicolas agreed. Francesca wondered if he knew that his sister was in love with the Hungarian, or if he accepted the offer so readily because it suited his own ends. But once they had left the noisy gaiety of the fair behind them and were jolting back to Valyos along the twisting, rutted cart track, her reckless mood subsided and she was filled with misgivings again. By the time they reached Valyos she was tormented by self-contempt. Before they left the fair the thought that Nicolas might kiss her goodnight had made her pulses race. Now she was tense with apprehension. Nicolas handed her down from the jeep and said, "If I know Senora Roja, she will have put some food out for us." He was right. There was a bottle of wine and a napkin- covered plate awaiting them on the kitchen table. But Francesca did not feel at all grateful for the Senora's kindly thought She had hoped to say a brisk goodnight, and now she felt trapped. "Did you enjoy yourself ?" Nicolas asked, pouring wine into two glasses. "Yes, very much, thank you," Francesca said stiffly.

He did not appear to notice the constraint in her voice, and helped himself to some cold chicken. "Aren't you hungry?" he said, when she sat down without taking any food. "No, thank you." She sipped her wine, but tonight it had the sour tang of vinegar. "I wonder how Pilar and Miklos are getting on?" Nicolas remarked presently, a note in his voice which made her look up at him. "My sister is in love with him - hadn't you guessed?" he asked. She nodded. "I thought she might be. Do you approve?" "I can't think of two people who are better suited to each other, but unfortunately the poor devil has not yet got over the death of his wife. He keeps a picture of her by his bed. She was not unlike you - very fair, rather fragile-looking, and with a lovely smile." Francesca's hand trembled suddenly and she almost spilled some wine. "I expect he will get over her eventually," she said huskily. "People can't live on memories for ever." She finished the wine, stood up, and took the glass to the sink to rinse it out. "Have you ever been in love, Francesca?" Nicolas asked softly. She had not heard him move, but now he was standing close behind her. "Not... seriously,' she said, in a brittle voice. Then his hands fell lightly on her shoulders and he turned her round to face him. He said something in Castilian. "W-what does that mean?" she asked unsteadily. "You must look it up in your phrase-book-although unless it is an unusually comprehensive one, it may not be included," he said, with a glint of devilment. His hands moved down her arms and tightened.

With a tremendous effort of will she looked him in the eyes and said frigidly, "Hadn't you better be getting back? If the others are there before you, they may think we've had an accident." His eyes narrowed and, for one instant, there was an expression on his face which reminded her of the incident in Escaldes when he had found the Spanish youth with her. Then he let her go, stepped back, and said coldly, "Yes, it is late and you are tired, no doubt. I -will not keep you up any longer." He bowed with rigid formality, and suddenly he was every inch a Spaniard. "Buenos noches3 senorita? he said coldly, making the soft Castilian words sound harsh and insolent. Then he walked out of the house and, moments later, she heard him start the jeep and drive away.

CHAPTER FOUR THE next day Francesca asked Senora Roja if she might have a packed lunch as she wanted to explore the other end of the valley., She walked from ten until noon, deliberately setting herself a hard pace. At twelve she ate the food, knelt at a nearby stream to quench her thirst and then, because she had had a wretched night's rest, lay down in the sun and slept. It was after three o'clock when she woke up, refreshed physically but no less miserable in spirit. For a long time she sat with her arms clasped round her upraised knees, staring gloomily at a rock. Today she was blind to the splendour of me scenery. All she could think about was the episode in the kitchen the night before. Last night, tossing restlessly on the soft feather mattress, she had seen the situation only from her own standpoint, bitterly regretting that she had ever come to Andorra in the first place, and that, having come, she should have been so incredibly unwary as not to realise that a man like Nicolas was best avoided. But now, unwillingly, but with her innate sense of fairness asserting itself, she began to consider the matter from another angle - the way it must have appeared to Nicolas. Her findings from this new point of view made her frown and gnaw her lip. Assuming - and it seemed a valid premise - that Nicolas had meant to kiss her last night, why make such a fuss about it? There was nothing particularly outrageous about a man wanting to kiss a girl after an evening out together. It was more or less customary. In the past, whenever she had wanted to avoid a goodnight embrace, she always managed it pleasantly and tactfully. ' But last night she had behaved like a character in a Victorian melodrama - the virtuous heroine indignantly repelling the advances of the black-hearted villain. Nicolas could not have known that she

was already so emotionally vulnerable to him that a kiss was likely to throw her completely off balance. A diffident man would probably have come to the humiliating conclusion that, he had misinterpreted her manner towards ham and that, secretly, she found him repugnant. But Nicolas had plenty of self-assurance, and since he must have known she felt some degree of attraction to him, he could only have thought she was a deliberate tease - one of those unpleasant girls who delighted in leading men on and then pretending to be insulted. What else could he have thought ? Even more miserable than when she had set out, Francesca trudged back to Valyos. Four days after the fair - four days without so much as a glimpse of the jeep in the distance - she reached the point when she felt she had to see him again or she would go crazy. In any case, now that her holiday was nearly at an end she would have to say goodbye to Dona Maria and Pilar. She would go to the Casa Vieja, and if there .was a chance to speak to him alone, she would try to explain to Nicolas that she had not meant to rebuff him so rudely. "Hello, Francesca. What have you been doing with yourself? We've been expecting you to come up every day," Pilar said smilingly, when Margarita showed her through to the patio. The Spanish girl was alone. She had been writing letters. But she looked tired, and seemed glad to sit back and relax for a few minutes. "Oh, I've been out walking most days," Francesca said casually, after she had been invited to sit down. "How is everyone?" "We are all well. Nothing eventful has happened since our jaunt to the fair. Can you stay and have dinner with us?"

"Thank you, but I don't think-" "Oh, do stay," Pilar urged. "I feel depressed today -1 don't know why. You will cheer me up." "All right, if you're sure your grandmother won't mind." "Of course not. She has been hoping to see some more of you. She suggested to Nicolas yesterday that he should drive down and invite you to spend the evening with us. But he had to go out unexpectedly. Today he is in Escaldes and will not be back until late. I suppose he has some business there - although, when he does not say why he is going to town, I suspect him of having a rendezvous with some girl or other. Poor Grandmother! She longs for him to marry and have sons. But as yet he shows no sign of settling down. For me she is less concerned because, if I ever marry, my children will not bear the name of de Vega." Her tone as she said "if I ever marry" held an unmistakable note of hopelessness. Obviously her moonlight ride with Miklos had been disappointing. Although Pilar had said Nicolas would not be back until late, Francesca spent the evening straining her ears for the sound of the jeep returning. During dinner, her glance kept straying to the empty chair at the end of the table. The minutes seemed to fly past, and she had a sickening feeling that she would be forced to return to the village before Nicolas came home. ' But about half past nine Pilar cocked her head and said, "Listen - that sounds like Nicolas. Yes, it is. I wonder why he is back so early?" A few minutes later her brother strode into the sala. His eyebrows lifted a fraction when he saw Francesca sitting beside her grandmother, but he greeted her with- out any hint of constraint.

"Have there been any messages for me?" he asked his sister. "Yes, the sow you have been treating at Lo Merrat has died," Pilar told him. Nicolas sat down, frowning. "I'll have to go over early tomorrow and do a post-mortem. It looked like a virus pneumonia, but it could have been lungworm." "You look tired. I Will go and make fresh coffee and find you something to eat," Pilar saidFrancesca waited until he had eaten some supper and smoked a cigarette. Then she said, "It's time I went back to the village. Once again, thank you for having me, senora." Nicolas stood up. "I will drive you home." "Perhaps Doctor Rador would escort Miss Cornel tonight as you have already driven a long way today," Dona Maria suggested. "Certainly - it will be a pleasure," the Hungarian agreed. "No, I will take her, Miklos," Nicolas said decisively. "I want to have a word with Xavier Roja." Francesca wondered if he had genuinely forgotten that the Rojas, like all- the other villagers, would be in bed by now, or if the remark was an excuse to be alone with her. But if it was only a pretext, no one questioned it. It was not until they were on the road that Francesca realised she had not taken her final leave of them. They were halfway back to Valyos before she mustered her courage to say, "Nicolas, I - I want to apologise."

To her surprise and discomfiture, he at once stopped the jeep and switched off the engine. "Apologise?" The blankness of his tone suggested that he had no idea what she was talking about. But he must know, Francesca thought' uncomfortably. Obviously he was going to make this as difficult as possible for her. "For the other night ... after the fair. I was not ... very polite," she said in a low tone. "But I didn't mean to be rude. It was just that... that..." Her voice tailed off as she searched for some safe explanation. "Just what, Francesca?" he prompted, after a moment. , As always, his use of her name sent a faint tremor through her. Thankful that, in the dim reflected light from the headlamps, he could not see her face clearly, she floundered for the right words to express herself. "You underestimate me, I fancy," Nicolas said coolly, when after several interminable minutes she was still tongue-tied. "The other night you thought I was going to make love to you, didn't you? Well... didn't you?" he repeated, when she did not answer. "Yes, I did," she said huskily. "You were right," he conceded smoothly. "But you were wrong in thinking that it would require such a pointed rebuff to deter me." "I know that... it was stupid of me. I'm sorry." "You are rather less sophisticated than you appear to be, aren't you?" he said, and his tone had a mocking inflection.

"Perhaps I am - but that's better than being too hard- boiled," she retorted, with a sudden flash of spirit. "Oh, certainly," he agreed. "No doubt, in the circumstances, I should have been mildly disillusioned if you had responded... more warmly, shall we say?" "You mean because you knew I didn't want you to ... kiss me?" she asked cautiously. "On the contrary, I think you wanted it very much and would have been piqued if it had not happened - or nearly happened. Even when a man does not appeal to her, a woman is seldom genuinely affronted when he makes some minor advance." "Oh, really - of all the ridiculously arrogant statements -" Francesca began hotly. "Unpalatable perhaps - but not ridiculous," he said negligently. Francesca drew in an exasperated breath. "Then if I was secretly longing to be kissed, it was very silly of me not to fall into your arms and swoon with ecstasy, wasn't it?" she countered acidly. "Swoon? What does this 'swoon' mean?" he enquired perplexedly. "To faint, to pass out - oh, confound you, you know what it means!" she exclaimed furiously, when she heard a stifled laugh. "Yes, I do, as it happens. You were about to swoon the first time we met, if you remember. Perhaps you saw me coming and were overcome with ecstasy," he said wickedly." "Of all the conceited, bumptious -" Francesca began again. But this time her indignation had no real fire in it. "Oh, Nicolas, you are a maddening man," she said, with feeling, "and then she began to laugh.

"That is better - now we are friends again." He gave her knee a casual pat, and turned to switch on the engine. But, ten minutes later, after he had dropped her at the Rojas' house and she had watched his tail lights disappear round the bend in the road, Francesca realised that their talk had not really resolved anything. She had not explained herself, and Nicolas had not said why he thought she had repulsed him. And while her conscience was easier now that she had made an amende honorable, she was still very far from being at peace with herself.

The next day, her last but one in Andorra, she returned the books Nicolas had lent her. He and Juana were the first people she saw when she reached the Casa Vieja. It was the middle of the afternoon and Juana was minding the little children and talking to Nicolas while he repaired a section of the climbing frame. Neither of them noticed Francesca approaching. Nicolas was intent on his task, and Juana, sitting on the grass beside him, was chattering in Catalan and looking very animated and pretty. It was then, walking towards them with his books neatly packaged under her arm, that Francesca realised that the emotion she had resented and fought against was not a giddy infatuation. Suddenly she knew beyond all doubt that she was truly and irretrievably in love. She was only two yards away when they noticed her. "Hello," she said huskily. "I - I've brought your books back, Nicolas." He straightened and smiled at her. "You look hot. Juana, go and find a refreshing drink for Miss Cornel, will you, nine?"

Behind him, Juana glowered furiously at the English girl, then flounced sulkily away towards the house. "No wonder," Francesca thought, with a pang of compassion for her. The day she had looked after the children while Margarita was sick, she had heard Nicolas call the little girls "nina" in precisely that tone. But a man would have to be singularly unobservant not to notice that, although she was very, young, Juana was far from being a gawky adolescent. Her figure had the ripe rounded contours which, in later life, when she had borne several children, would almost certainly deteriorate into obesity. But at the moment she was shapely and lissom, and obviously well aware of her charms. So perhaps Nicolas treated her like a child deliberately, knowing how she felt about him and not wishing to encourage her. "There, that's done," he said, testing his handiwork. "Let's sit in the shade, shall we?" "Did you find out-why the pig died?" Francesca asked, when they had moved to the wooden bench under a nearby tree. "Yes, it had a fairly uncommon parasitic condition. If you would like some more books, come into the house and choose for yourself." "You forget - I'm going home the day after tomorrow," she said in a low voice. The finality of her own words brought such a piercing sensation of pain and desolation that she caught her breath. "No, I had not forgotten," Nicolas said. "But I thought you would probably decide to spend another week here since you arc not forced to return yet." Francesca said nothing and, after a moment, he added, "If you stay we might go to Escaldes again. There is a fiesta there, next week."

Did he want her to stay? Was this an oblique way of saying he hoped she would? For a moment, her spirits soared and she almost said, "Perhaps I will stay - yes, I will." But then another thought made her hesitate. She knew from her experience with Paul that women in love had a fatal tendency to read hidden meanings into words which had none. She had done it before. Perhaps now she was doing it again. Maybe Nicolas was only being polite, like people who said, "Oh, must you go so early?" when they had been afraid their guests were never going to leave. So instead she said casually, "Well, my instinct is to stay and enjoy this heavenly hot weather a little linger, but common sense tells me I should go back and start work again. I've been out of circulation for quite' a time, you know, and I don't need to rest any longer. I've never felt healthier."Nicolas lit a cigarette, and she had a sinking feeling that he was going to say something like, "You know best, of course," or "Yes, I daresay you're right." But, after an oddly long pause, he answered, "Personally, I believe it is always best to follow one's instincts. Common sense and caution are necessary at times, but as guiding principles they make for a rather dull existence, don't you think?" "If they were my guiding principles I would never have come to Andorra at all. I would have gone to Brighton or Eastbourne," she said, with a faint smile. "Where you would have spent your holiday sitting in one of those unpleasant-smelling promenade shelters they have to have at English seaside places."

"Or among the potted plants at some boarding house , miles from the front," Francesca said, grimacing. "Although, to be fair, I've had some very good holidays at boarding houses - when I was still at school. And it doesn't always rain in England, you know. We do have a good summer occasionally." "Nevertheless I do not think that if you had spent the past three weeks at an English resort you would look as you do," he said, appraising her. "It is very striking, this combination of blonde hair and golden skin." It was one of those moments when, in spite of his slate- grey eyes and lack of accent, she was very conscious that he was far more Spanish than English. An Englishman would never have told her that her skin was golden. It would have made him feel a fool - unless he was so desperately in love that he had lost all inhibitions. But Nicolas took after his Spanish forebears, and, from what she had heard, in Spain men said such things all the time. Compliments came easily to them, and were accepted as conversational currency. They had no special significance. To confirm these thoughts, Nicolas looked towards the house and said, "Juana seems to have forgotten us. Let's go in and find something for ourselves. The children will be safe enough for a few minutes." "Thanks, but I only came to give back your books. I didn't plan to stay. I - I have several letters to write," Francesca said quickly. "Can't they wait till tomorrow?" "No, I must do them tonight." Suddenly she felt she had to be alone for a while, that if she stayed a moment longer-she might give herself away. "I'll see you tomorrow either to say goodbye or to tell you that I'm staying 'on a bit." Before he could answer, she turned and hurried away across the grass.

"I hope your instinct wins," Nicolas called after her. When she looked over her shoulder, she saw that he was grinning.

Early next morning, Francesca stood on her balcony in the sun and realised that, in the space of twenty-four hours, the whole course of her life had changed direction. This time yesterday she had been confused and unhappy, reluctant to look ahead because the future seemed so empty, so unpromising. Today, she had never felt so alive, so- eager, so optimistic. The future was still uncertain, but with one great difference. Now she knew what she wanted. Now she had made up her mind what to do next. She was in love with Nicolas de Vega, and she was going to stay in Andorra as long as she possibly could - in the hope that it might be for life, for ever. She sang as she washed and dressed and, when she looked in her make-up mirror, there seemed to be a new sparkle in her eyes, a new glow about her skin. "You are gay this morning, senorita. Now that your holiday will soon be finished, no doubt you are looking forward to seeing your home and your friends again?" said Senora Roja, when Francesca ran downstairs, hungry for breakfast. "No, I am gay because I have decided not to go home yet, senora. I presume you have no objection to my staying for another fortnight or so ? " The farmer's wife gave her a startled glance, then looked swiftly away again and continued preparing the vegetables for lunch.

"I am sorry, senorita, but I am afraid that is impossible," she said rapidly. "Impossible?" Francesca stared at her, astonished. "Impossible," the other woman repeated firmly. "Naturally I would be delighted to accommodate you if I could, but tomorrow some more visitors arrive and they will require both our guest rooms. So I'm afraid you will have to leave in the morning as you planned. Perhaps, as you wish to prolong your holiday, you will be able to find a hotel room in Escaldes." This was a reverse which Francesca had not foreseen. Senora Roja had never mentioned the people who were coming next day and, perhaps unreasonably, Francesca had assumed that she could stay at the farmhouse as long as she pleased. She said, "No, I don't particularly want to stay in Escaldes. Perhaps there is someone else in Valyos who would take me in? I don't mind if the room is not as nice as the one I've had here." "Unfortunately we are the only family who can accommodate tourists, senorita. All the houses are already fully occupied. It is a pity, but there it is." It was then that Francesca recognised a forced note in the Andorran woman's voice, and saw that she was flushed and looked deeply embarrassed. Suddenly she had a feeling that the senora was not telling the truth. "Oh, well, it can't be helped," she said, in a resigned tone. "Where do your new visitors come from, senorita? Are they also English people ? "

There was a significant pause before the farmer's wife said hastily, "No, no, they are not English. They are ... a French family from Toulouse." Francesca sat down at the other end of the table and began to eat her breakfast. She was positive now that Senora Roja was lying. Why? she wondered bewilderedly. Why should she want to get rid of her ? Until this morning her hostess had always been so friendly, so anxious to please. "May one ask why the senorita has changed her mind? - why she now wishes to remain in the Valleys for a longer period?" the farmer's wife enquired, using the formal third person, as if they had only the slightest acquaintance with each other. The question - and the swift searching look that accompanied it brought a flash of enlightenment. Juana! Francesca thought succinctly. Aloud, she said, "There is no special reason, senora. As I am not obliged to go home tomorrow, I thought I would enjoy the sun - and your excellent cooking - for a little longer, that's all." "I am glad we have succeeded in making the senorita. comfortable," the older woman said in a low tone, looking far from comfortable herself. There was a note of genuine contrition in her tone as she added, "It is not my wish to disappoint you, but you understand how I am placed." "Indeed I do," Francesca thought dryly. Juana - and perhaps her parents as well - have forced your hand. "Of course," she said lightly. "It is not your fault, senora."

But although, as she finished her breakfast, she was determined to dig in her heels and find some way round this crucial blow to her plans, later, when she was alone in her room again, it was hard to see how she could circumvent the situation. She was fairly sure that there were several houses in the village which had rooms to spare and where, in other circumstances, she would have been welcome to stay. But Valyos was a closely knit community, and no doubt everyone knew of Juana's aspirations and would readily support her cause if she had convinced them it was being endangered by an outsider. "Perhaps I could find a room in that village on the other side of the valley," Francesca thought, frowning. "But, if I tried, Juana could probably bring pressure to bear on them, too - and anyway it's at least three miles from the Casa Vieja. I suppose, if I had the courage of my convictions, I would ask the de Vegas if they could put me up - but I don't think I have the nerve." She spent the rest of the morning debating what to do for the best, and finally decided to call at the Casa Vieja, say that she had planned to stay on longer but that the Rojas had no room for her, and see what suggestions were forthcoming. Perhaps it was a good thing this had happened because, when she mentioned her predicament, it would be a test of how Nicolas felt about her. If he accepted her enforced departure with polite regret, then she would know that she meant nothing to him and that, although she was truly in love this time, it was as foredoomed as her infatuation for Paul Landon. It was the day the baker called at Valyos. He came once a week, his van stacked with flat round loaves weighing five or six pounds each, and many other supplies for the villagers. Today, as on his last two calls, he brought an airmail letter for Francesca. It was another bulletin from Susan in London. "Dear Fran" (Sue had written)

"What a wretch you are! You promised to write and tell all - and what do I get? Two scrappy postcards! Are you coming home on Saturday or Sunday? Do let me know so that I can meet you. I'm longing to hear all about your trip. "Johnny has had his foot in the door ever since you left, and the other day I accidentally let it out that you were not staying with your brother. He was furious and tried to bludgeon the truth out of me, but I wouldn't tell him. Last night he took me out to dinner - funds being rather low this week> I couldn't resist a slap-up meal - and talked about you all evening. He really is serious - this time, sweetie. I'm sure if he knew where you were, he'd charter a plane and track you down. Are you sure you aren't the least bit interested? Life as Mrs. S. would be pretty lush, you know - and he's really rather a lamb under the boulevardier surface!" The rest of the letter described a party which Sue had been to the previous weekend, and some new clothes she had bought. When she had read it, Francesca slipped the flimsy sheets of airmail paper back into the envelope and thrust it in the pocket of her skirt. In her earlier letters, Susan had not mentioned that Johnny was still around, and Francesca had hoped that by now he had found another girlfriend. When, after lunch, she arrived at the Casa and found Pilar giving the older children a geography lesson, she was dismayed to learn that both Nicolas and Miklos had answered an urgent summons from a village several miles away, and it was not known when they would return. The older children were busy writing answers to questions which Pilar had written on the blackboard while the younger ones made tracings from their atlases, so Pilar was able to explain what had happened.

"There have been two French boys camping near this village, and early this morning, they were found to be missing. It is feared that they have attempted to climb one of the difficult ascents and are trapped, perhaps injured," she said worriedly. "As Nicolas is known to be an experienced climber, the Mayor of the village sent a boy to fetch him. Miklos has gone with him because it is more than likely that when they are found, the boys will need expert medical attention." "So they may not be back until late tonight?" Francesca said dully. "Perhaps not until tomorrow," Pilar told her. "It is not easy to find lost climbers if they are past calling for help. But if they have not been rescued by nightfall, Nicolas will undoubtedly send word to us." "I see." Francesca felt as if someone had suddenly flung a bucket of ice-cold water over her, douching the last spark of hope. She knew that her first concern should be for the two lost youths, but all she could feel was a sick sense of panic because, if the boys had not been found before dusk, she might have to leave Valyos without even saying goodbye to Nicolas. "This lesson will be over in ten minutes," Pilar said, after a glance at her watch. "Then I will join you on the patio and we can talk." Francesca nodded and walked back to the house. Waiting for Pilar to join her on the patio, she began to suffer an even sharper agony of mind. At this very moment Nicolas might be scaling some terrifyingly sheer face of rock. What if, trying to rescue the campers, he were to fall himself? Even expert climbers had accidents sometimes - fatal accidents. She had a horrible vision of a rope slipping, a foothold crumbling . .. and Nicolas falling through hundreds of feet of space to the rugged crags below. Oh, God, keep him safe... keep him safe...

She shut her eyes, gripped by such a piercing agony of fear for him that she did not hear the sudden outbreak of chatter and slaughter as the geography class came to an end. "Francesca, are you feeling ill ?" She opened her eyes to find Pilar standing beside her, looking puzzled and concerned. "No, I'm all right," she said hoarsely. But her heart was thudding against her ribs, and her hands, gripping the arms of the chair, were sticky with the cold sweat of terror. She cleared her throat, "I - I was thinking of those boys. I have no head for heights. The thought of being stuck on a mountain gives me fits," she said quickly. "Yes, I too have no urge to climb mountains," Pilar agreed, "but don't worry, Nicolas will rescue them. He has been climbing since he was a boy and he knows every peak in the Valleys. He is not afraid of great heights. Climbing is one of his pleasures. Excuse me a moment, please. I will fetch some refreshments." While she was away, Juana came past the patio. She stopped short on seeing Francesca there, and an unmistakable smirk touched the corners of her full red lips. "Good afternoon, senorita. You have come to say farewell, I expect. This is your last day in the Valleys, is it not?" she enquired silkily. Francesca nodded, feeling a sudden sharp dislike for the Andorran girl. Did she really love Nicolas - or was she only setting her cap at him because he was a better "catch" than one of the village youths, and she would have an easier life with him and be envied by her friends ? "What a pity Senor Nicolas is not here to say goodbye. No doubt he would have offered to escort you to the frontier, senorita. He is always

very helpful to foreign visitors," Juana said, smirking more broadly now. With a triumphant toss of her head, she walked on round the side of the house. Pilar came back with two tall glasses of iced coffee in her hands. "There, now I will rest, for ten minutes. It has been a strenuous day with both Miklos and Nicolas away." She put the drinks on the table between them and sat down with a sigh of pleasure. "I came to say goodbye to you all. I'm leaving tomorrow, you know," Francesca said quietly. "Tomorrow? So soon? "Pilar seemed startled. "I only came for three weeks," Francesca said. "Yes, I know, but it does not seem three weeks since you arrived. Time passes quickly when one is busy." "Or when one is enjoying oneself," Francesca said forlornly. "Yes, it is always sad to say goodbye to happy places and new friends," Pilar agreed. "But you are so beautiful, Francesca. Surely you must have many friends in London, and a very gay and interesting life there?" There was a faint note of wistfulness in her tone. Francesca looked down at her hands. "I used to think so," she answered wryly. "But now I see things differently. I have no family, you know, except my brother, and we have never been terribly close because we were brought up separately. And I have only one real friend. I suppose my life has been fairly gay, but it has never been very ... satisfying. Not in the way yours must be." Pilar sipped her coffee, watching Francesca over the rim of the glass, her dark eyes thoughtful.

"If you really feel like that, why don't you join us as I suggested some days ago ? " she asked. Francesca stared at her. "But you were only joking, weren't you?" The Spanish girl shrugged. "I did not think you would ever consider such a step. I thought our life here must seem very dull to you." "Not dull, with forty children around the place," Francesca said, with a rather breathless laugh. "Then why not stay? You do not have to commit yourself. If, after a few weeks, you are not happy, you will be free to change your mind." "But I have no qualifications. I'm not trained to work with children." "You are intelligent ... and kind. You like children. That is all that is necessary," Pilar said calmly. "These children are not like you and me, Francesca. As you see them now, they do not look so very different from ourselves when we were their age. But they are, poor little ones. Each of them is secretly haunted by the fear that they may be sent away from here - back to the cold and hunger and misery which is all they knew before they came to us. It takes months, sometimes years of loving kindness to rid them of such fears. More than anything else they need affection and understanding. You can give them those two things, can you not?" "I could try," Francesca said uncertainly. "Then it is settled," Pilar said briskly. "If, after a trial period - shall we say a month - you find you have not settled down happily, then you can return to England and no harm will have been done. You appreciate, of course, that I cannot pay you a very handsome salary?" "Oh, the salary is not important. I shan't need much money here anyway," Francesca said hastily.

"Then tomorrow Nicolas can fetch, your luggage from Valyos and we will have a room prepared for you. Or perhaps you would like to move immediately? Why don't you go and pack your cases now, and later I will send two of the big boys to carry them up here for you." "Very well, I will," Francesca agreed. She could guess how Juana would feel when she learned what had happened. But how would Nicolas react when he came home to find her already established as a member of his household?

Late that night, after Dona Maria had retired to bed, and Pilar had spent the past hour talking to Francesca about the children, they heard the jeep coming back. "Come, we must make coffee and have some food ready," Pilar said, jumping up from her chair. "The men are sure to be very hungry." A few minutes later, as they bustled about Florentina's spotless kitchen, Miklos Rador came through the doorway. He looked haggard with fatigue, and slumped on to a chair so wearily that Pilar made an involuntary movement towards him, then checked herself and said quietly, "The boys are safe, Miklos ?" ' He nodded, rubbing one thin hand over the roughness of his jaw. "Yes, we found them about noon, but it was a long job getting them down. One lad was injured, the other one had lost his nerve. They will be at the hospital in Escaldes by now." There were footsteps in the passage and Nicolas appeared in the doorway, two heavy coils of rope hung over one shoulder, some pitons in his hand. Like Miklos, he had not shaved since the previous

morning but above the dark shadow of stubble his eyes were clear and alert. They narrowed when he saw Francesca standing behind the table, but he did not express surprise at her presence. When he had dumped the climbing tackle on a chest, he said, "I'll go up and have a word with Grandmother. She will have heard us coming back." After her brother had gone. Pilar turned to a cupboard and produced a bottle of brandy. "You look exhausted, Miklos. Have some cognac," she said, pouring a generous measure into a tumbler. He drank it quickly, coughed, and managed a smile. It was the first time Francesca had seen him smile and she was surprised to see how much it changed him. Although he was so tired, he looked, for an instant, almost boyish. "Thank you, Pilar. It is so long since I have done any climbing, I found it something of an ordeal. I am not as fit as Nicolas," he said ruefully. "You went up the mountain with him?" Pilar asked sharply. The Hungarian nodded. "I shall be stiff tomorrow, I fear. My muscles begin to protest already. Do not be surprised if you see me hobbling like a grandfather." He sounded oddly pleased at the prospect. But Pilar had turned very pale, Francesca noticed. As her brother came back into the kitchen, the Spanish girl said angrily, "How could you allow Miklos to risk his neck on the mountain with you, Nicolas? Surely there were others ready to help? He might have been killed."

"Miklos? Don't be silly," Nicolas said calmly. "He is an experienced climber. I could not have managed without him. We must climb together again - but for our own pleasure next time," he said to the doctor, as he sat down. "Oh, you men! You never think of us who must sit at home and wait. If I had known Pilar stopped abruptly. her pallor changing to a flush of mortification as she realised such vehemence might give away her secret. And as the two men drew in their chairs and set hungrily to work on the food she set before them, Francesca noticed that from time to time Miklos glanced across at Pilar with a rather searching expression. "Some more coffee, Nicolas?" Francesca asked, when he had finished eating. Since that one narrowed glance when he first came in, he had not looked at her again. "Please." He waited until she had filled his cup, then said, "You are staying the night here, I take it ? " "Francesca is joining our ménage. I have offered her a position here and she has agreed to spend a trial period with us to see if the life is agreeable to her," Pilar informed him. Nicolas's expression was completely unreadable. But Miklos said quickly, "This is a very pleasant surprise, Miss Cornel. I am sure you will be a most valuable addition to our little community - and it will be pleasant for Pilar to have your companionship. Let me wish you success in this venture." "Thank you very much - and please call me Francesca now." She smiled at him, inwardly tensed to hear what Nicolas would say.

But Nicolas pushed back his chair and said he had some more gear to bring in from the jeep. He left the kitchen without making any comment at all. "It is late. You go to bed, Francesca. We will leave the dishes for Florentina. She will not mind," said Pilar. Francesca took the hint - if it was one - and bade them goodnight. In the passage she met Nicolas carrying a tin box which probably contained first-aid kit, and two pairs of heavy climbing boots. 'Going to bed? I shall be glad to get some sleep myself," he said, standing close to the wall for her to pass him. "Yes, I expect you will. Goodnight," she said flatly. In the bedroom Pilar had given her - a small pleasant room, sparsely furnished but with a modern hand basin - she washed and brushed her teeth. Suddenly she felt as tired as if she, too, had spent the day climbing a mountain. But she lay awake for some time, wondering what to make of Nicolas's silent acceptance of the news that she was now a member of the household, and troubled by a mounting sense of guilt because she had accepted Pilar's offer, not for any philanthropic reason, but for her own selfish ends.

Next day, Miklos Rador took four of the children to Escaldes for dental treatment. Francesca went with them, and sent a wire to Susan. "Plans changed. Not coming home yet Don't worry. Everything fine. Letter following." - she wrote on a form at the Post Office.

In the letter which she wrote that evening, she told her friend she had made friends with a local family and was staying on as their guest for another week or two. It was possible, she added, that she might take a job in Andorra. It was such a fascinating little country, and she wanted to learn Spanish. Meanwhile she was enclosing a cheque to cover her share of the rent and other household expenses for the next few weeks. In the days which followed, Francesca began to think that perhaps she really could play a useful part in the life of the hospicio. Anxious to pull her weight, she offered to teach simple dressmaking to the older girls, a suggestion which Pilar accepted with enthusiasm. But the thing which made her feel much less an impostor was that Peter, the little boy who rarely spoke and never smiled, suddenly attached himself to her. He followed her about, furtively at first, and then more openly and closely. For some time she pretended not to notice the way he was shadowing her, and then, one day, she turned and smiled, and held out her hand to him. She half expected him to run away, for he was as wary and nervous as some small wild animal. But, to her surprise, he edged closer, and as his skinny little hand touched hers, she felt such a rush of tender compassion for him that she wanted to hug him close. 4 But she knew, she must go very slowly, so she only gave his hand ah encouraging squeeze, and then Nicolas came round the corner of the house and Peter darted away and disappeared. "What's the trouble?" Nicolas asked, stopping short and looking rather keenly at her. "There's no trouble." Francesca's voice was husky, her vision a little misty. "Young Peter seems to have taken a fancy to you," said Nicolas.

She nodded. "Yes... I don't know why." "Don't you?" His mouth curved slightly, and he put up a hand and touched her cheek with one fingertip. Theft-he was gone, leaving her with wildly racing pulses and a renewed conviction that she had been right to stay in the Valleys. Susan's reply to her letter was puzzled and anxious. "What do you mean when you say you are thinking of finding a job out there? What kind of job? - she wrote. "Surely there is nothing in our line in Andorra? Do write and explain more fully, Fran. Your letter read as, if you were hiding something. What goes on?" Francesca answered this appeal with repeated assurances that she was in excellent health and thoroughly enjoying herself. But she was reluctant to reveal what she was doing until the end of her probationary period, so she answered her friend's enquiries by saying that she had not decided anything yet, and would let Susan know as soon as her plans were more definite. One afternoon, a fortnight after she had moved to the Casa Vieja, she went for a solitary walk. Pilar had insisted that she should have an afternoon free from all duties because she had been up in the night with Peter, who had had one of his periodic bouts of nervous asthma. Tired, but disinclined to spend the afternoon resting in her room, Francesca asked Florentina for some meriandas to take with her. For the first time since she had come to Andorra, the sky was overcast. Low clouds obscured the tops of the mountains, and the atmosphere was close and oppressive. Francesca set out at two o'clock, and at three she knew it must be raining on the other side of the valley because, up among the crags, she

could see a shepherd sheltering under his big black umbrella. Soon afterwards she felt a Warning splash on her arm, and from far away there came a low growl of thunder. She was about to turn back the way she had come - the rain was spotting her shirt now - when she noticed a hut some way ahead, and decided to shelter there. But as she hurried over the rough rock-strewn ground, the heavens opened and she was caught in a deluge. By the time she reached the hut, her hair and shirt were drenched. Fortunately the door was not locked and the roof was sound. But the place had no window and there was a sour, unpleasant smell about the murky interior. Francesca wiped her wet face with her handkerchief, and then took off her shirt and hung it over the top of the inward-opening door. She had to leave the door open for light and air, and she was warmer in her lace bra and slip than with the soaked shirt sticking clammily to her skin. When the rain showed no sign of slackening, she unwrapped her meriandas and stood in the doorway, eating bread and sausage and listening to the thunder reverberating among the peaks. It was growing darker, and presently she flinched as a savage zig-zag of lightning was followed by a deafening crescendo of sound. The full brunt of the storm did not pass over the little stone hut, and if it had Francesca would not have panicked, for she did not suffer from a terror of storms. But all the same it was an eerie and awe-inspiring experience being stranded in the isolated hut while the sky resounded like a battlefield and the vicious-looking tongues of lightning cleft the gloom. After the storm had passed on towards the frontier with Spain, the rain continued to fall in a steady downpour. It looked as if it might go on all night, but it seemed sensible to wait for half an hour before attempting

the long walk Back to the Casa Vieja. Now that the door had been open for some time, the hut smelt less fusty. There was a mound of straw, which looked quite clean, in one corner and, tire$ of standing, Francesca sat down on it. Presently she lay back. The straw prickled her bare shoulders, but she was feeling sleepy now and the soft patter of rain on the roof above was like a monotonous berceuse. She yawned, her eyelids heavy with drowsiness. She might as well have a cat nap. She was not likely to sleep for very long on such a rough bed. She was woken up by a bright light shining into her face, and as she opened her eyes she heard a sound like a horse whinnying. The light dazzled her, and she could not think where she was. Then the beam moved and lit up the rough stone wall of the hut, and she remembered the storm and dozing off. "Nicolas, what are you doing here?" she whispered bemusedly, turning her head and seeing him bending over her in the dimness. "Are you all right ?" She could not see, his face clearly, but his voice sounded strange... quite different from usual. "Yes, of course I am." She attempted to sit up, felt a pang of cramp in one arm and sank back on the straw. "Ouch, I'm stiff! What time is it?" she asked muzzily. "Nearly ten o'clock." "Ten o'clock ... ten o'clock? - it can't be!" She was wide awake now, and horrified. "But it was only about four when I went to sleep," she protested. "I can't have been asleep for six hours." "You must have been, mustn't you?" She knew now why his voice sounded so odd. He was furious.

"Oh, heavens, I'm terribly sorry. Have you been hunting all over the place for me? I suppose you thought I'd lost my way." "Either that, or that you'd tripped over a cliff and broken your neck," he said, in a tone like a whiplash. "I'm sorry, Nicolas. I didn't mean to fall asleep for hours." She reached out a hand to touch his arm. It was an involuntary gesture of contrition and appeal for forgiveness, and it had 6 galvanic effect on him. Before she knew what was happening, he had caught her roughly by the shoulders and hauled her hard against his chest. Then his mouth was on hers, and he was kissing her with a fierce angry passion which bruised her lips and threatened to crush her ribs. After a moment of stunned amazement, Francesca began to struggle but not to free herself. As his grip slackened a little, her arms slid round his neck and she clung to him. The kiss ended when he wrenched his mouth from hers as if he had to break away sharply or be lost. But his arms stayed round her, and Francesca could feel the rapid thudding of his heart against her collarbone. His hand moved over her back, and he said thickly, "You are only half dressed. Where is your blouse?' She had forgotten that she had taken off her shirt, and now the touch of his fingers on her bare shoulderblades made her tremble and catch her breath. "It - it was wet. I hung it on the door," she said, in a whisper. He let her go and, her eyes growing accustomed to the shadowy glow behind the strong white beam of the storm lamp, she watched him strip off his sweater.

"Here, put this on. You must be cold," he said huskily. "Help me up, will you? My legs seem to have gone to sleep." She held out a hand, and he pulled her easily to her feet. As she took the sweater from him and put her arms into the sleeves, he bent and brushed his lips against the cool smooth curve of her naked shoulder. Then he turned and went outside, and she heard the unmistakable snort of a horse and restive movements of hooves on the stony ground. The sweater was much too large for her, but it was soft, and warm from his body. She rolled up the sleeves with unsteady hands, picked up the storm lamp and retrieved her damp shirt. Nicolas was making some adjustment to the saddle when she closed the door behind her and turned the light towards him. "Put the lamp on the ground for a minute, will you?" he said, over his shoulder. His voice sounded almost normal again. When he had finished whatever he was doing, he beckoned her to him. For a moment, as he took her by the waist she thought he would kiss her again. But he only lifted her on to the horse's back and told her to sit astride. Then he switched out the lamp, clipped it to his belt and swung up behind her. Francesca had never been on a horse before, but she was only vaguely aware that the ride back to the Casa Vieja was not very comfortable. With her back against Nicole's chest, and his arms enclosing her to hold the reins, she would have borne much worse discomforts. Now and then, as the full moon emerged from behind a cloud, the way was almost clear as by daylight. But even in faint starshine either Nicolas or the horse was able to follow the winding route home.

Nicolas did not speak, and neither did Francesca. She felt she ought to pinch herself to make sure that she was not safely in bed at the Casa and only dreaming this strange and wonderful night ride. But she knew it was not a dream and that there was no need for either of them to say anything, because the kiss had said everything for them. She thought "I will remember this all my life," and she had never known such intense happiness. As they approached the house. Pilar and Miklos came out to meet them. "Thank God you have found her. What happened? Where was she?" Pilar demanded, as her brother dismounted and turned to help Francesca down. "Don't fuss, Pilar. She is not hurt. She fell asleep in one of the shepherd's huts," he said calmly, speaking over Francesca's head as she slid to the ground. "Asleep?" Pilar looked astounded. Then she seized the other girl's hands and pressed them warmly. "Oh, Francesca, we thought something dreadful had happened. What a relief to have you safely back with us! I must run to tell Grandmother. Miklos, take the poor child into the kitchen. She must be hungry." Nicolas said he must stable his horse, so Miklos led Francesca into the kitchen where Florentina, clucking like an agitated hen, set a bowl of rich meat soup in front of her. Then Pilar rejoined them and Francesca explained what had happened and apologised for causing them so much anxiety. "It was very stupid of me to take a nap there," she ended remorsefully. "But of course I never thought I would -" she stopped short as Nicolas appeared. His smile brought a delicate flush of colour to her cheeks.

"Is there some soup for me, Florentina?" he asked, sitting down on the other side of the table. "As soon as you have had enough to eat, you must go straight to bed, Francesca," Pilar said firmly. "Six hours in one of those miserable huts, and in wet clothes, too, is enough to give you a bad chill, isn't it, Miklos ? " "Oh, I won't catch cold. I'm fine. Besides, after a sleep like that, I'm not tired," Francesca protested, longing for them all to go to bed and leave her alone with Nicolas. "Nevertheless I think you should do as Pilar suggests," Miklos agreed. "Perhaps it would be as well to have a warm bath first, and I will give Pilar some tablets to bring up to you with a glass of hot milk. They will help to counteract any adverse results from this experience." "But I can't go to bed straight after a huge bowl of soup and all this cold chicken." Francesca looked appealingly at Nicolas. Surely he did not want them to hustle her upstairs like this? There was a teasing glint in his eyes as he said, "I think the bath is a good idea, as long as it is not too hot. That straw may have been clean, but it was undoubtedly inhabited by all kinds of small insects, some of which you have probably brought bad: with you. Go and fill the bath for her, Pilar." Pilar hurried away to the bathroom and Miklos went to fetch the tablets from his medicine cupboard, but there was still Florentina's presence to preclude Nicolas from saying aloud what Francesca thought she could read in the intent look he gave her when the cook turned her back for a moment.

All he did say was, "You had better let them pack you off to bed. Tomorrow is another day, remember," and his glance strayed to her mouth in a way which made her heart begin to race again. So when Pilar came to tell her the bath was ready, Francesca said casually, "Goodnight, Nicolas. Thank you for rescuing me. I should never have found my own way back in the dark." Then she went upstairs and, after her bath, let Pilar tuck her into bed as if she had been through some harrowing ordeal instead of the most wonderful misadventure of her life. She drank the hot milk, but she did not take the tablets because she thought they were probably sedatives, and she wanted to he awake, reliving the past hour and enjoying the relief of having all her secret hopes and dreams vindicated at last.'

She was woken up the next morning by Pilar tapping on her door and coming in to ask how she felt. "Blooming - never better," Francesca said gaily, bouncing out of bed. "But look, you are bruised. You did not tell us you had fallen," Pilar exclaimed concernedly. "Bruised? Where?" Francesca peered in the glass on the dressing chest, and saw that there were dark marks on the upper parts of her arms. "Oh, they're nothing serious, Pilar," she said, hurriedly grabbing her dressing- gown and shrugging into it. "I - I'd forgotten. I did slip over when I was walking. But I didn't really hurt myself. I bruise very easily." "You are sure you feel well enough to come down? You would not like to have breakfast in bed and rest a little longer?" Pilar asked.

"Heavens, no! What a feeble creature you must think me. After Pilar had left her, Francesca took off the robe and looked at the marks again. They were the imprints of that first wild moment when Nicolas had grabbed her as if he wanted to beat the daylights out of her. Choosing a dress with sleeves which would cover the bruises, she wondered how long it would be before she was in Nicolas's arms again. Not till tonight, probably.. She would be kept busy most of the day, and there was nowhere in the house or grounds where one of the children might not pop up unexpectedly. It seemed a very long time from now until after supper. But at least she would see him before then, and perhaps he might take a chance on touching her hand or murmuring something that was only for her ears. But Nicolas had gone out early, and she had to wait until the middle of the morning before she saw him again. She had been giving the older girls another lesson in dressmaking, and the class had just broken up for the mid- morning break, when Nicolas came out of the house and across the grass towards them. Francesca's heart seemed to skip at least six beats, and she stood very still, suddenly overcome with an absurd shyness. Then she realised that he was not smiling at her, but looking decidedly grim, and she wondered what could be the matter. "Good morning," Nicolas said coldly, when he reached her. "You have a visitor, Francesca." "A visitor?" she said blankly. "What do you mean?" "Come and see."

He turned on his heel and she had to run to catch up with him. "Who is it, Nicolas? Senora Roja? Vasco? I don't know anyone else in the Valleys." "No, it is not the senora or Vasco." He strode ahead, not looking at her. Mystified, and frightened by the cold look on his face, Francesca followed him inside the house and along the passage leading to the slain entrance. As they reached the front door, she drew in her breath and stopped short, transfixed with dismay. "Surprised?" Nicolas murmured in her ear, as he gripped her elbow and propelled her through the doorway. Drawn up behind the shabby jeep was a rakish blue sports car. And, lounging against the nearside door, was Johnny Sarnley. As soon as he saw her his face lit up with delight. He flung away his half-smoked cigarette and sprang towards her. "Francesca! Oh, Franny darling!" Before she could draw back or recover her wits, Johnny had caught her in his arms and kissed her.

CHAPTER FIVE IT seemed an eternity before Johnny let her go, and stepped back a pace. "That shook you, didn't it?" he said, grinning. "I thought you would be pretty flabbergasted to see me. I finally managed to worm your address out of Susan, you see. I must say Andorra is the last place I'd have thought of looking for you, sweetie. Talk about the back of beyond - oh, I beg your pardon, senor" - this to Nicolas, who was still standing beside them, with an expression now completely inscrutable. "I didn't mean to sound rude, you understand, but you have to admit that your country isn't exactly on the beaten track," Johnny went on candidly. Then, to Francesca, "Speaking of beaten tracks, I've had to give my new jalopy quite a pasting to get to you, honeybunch. The roads hereabouts are rather tough on the old suspension. However, not to worry! It was worth a rough ride to see you looking so staggered just now." He paused to appraise her more closely. "You look stunning, Franny darling," he said admiringly. "The last time I saw you I was darned worried, you know. You looked as if a puff of wind might blow you away, poor sweet. But now you look terrific, absolutely terrific!" Francesca did not know what to say. She had never felt less pleased to see anyone in her life, but, when he must have driven at least eight hundred miles to find her, she could not be pointedly rude to him. "Oh, Johnny, fancy coming all this way," she said weakly, still too stunned to be able to think clearly. "I'd have made the overland trek to Capetown to see you looking like this, you gorgeous girl. As a matter of fact I almost rang you up last night when they told me at the hotel in Escaldes that this place was on

the phone. Then I thought it would be more fun to arrive out of the blue. I was just asking for directions down in the village when the senor stopped by and offered to lead the way." "Come inside and let us offer you some refreshment, senor," said Nicolas. He turned and led the way into the house, and Johnny caught Francesca's hand and gave it a quick anticipatory squeeze. They went into the cool, sun-screened sola where Dona Maria was stitching some fine embroidery. Nicolas presented their visitor. Fortunately Johnny had excellent manners and evidently recognised, as Francesca had done, that he was in the presence of a grande dame. Afterwards he told Francesca that Nicolas's grandmother had instantly reminded him of one of his own great-aunts - an "old dragon" who always behaved as if she were giving a royal audience. But at the time, Francesca was both surprised and relieved by the courtly way he bowed over Dona Maria's hand and asked her to excuse the informality of his clothes - a pair of linen shorts and an extremely jazzy beach shirt. "Nicolas, tell Florentina that we have a guest, so we will lunch en famille on the patio, please," said Dona Maria, when she had invited Johnny to, be seated. Then, after her grandson had left the room, "Francesca, I expect you would like to change for lunch today. I will entertain Mr. Sarnley while you are upstairs." In her room, Francesca leaned against the door, eyes closed, fists clenched, a surge of impotent anger welling up inside her. Oh, damn Susan - how dared she break her promise!

And damn Johnny, too. He had no right to descend on her like this, especially today ... today of all days. What must Nicholas think? What had Johnny said to him when they had first met each other in Valyos ? Oh, God, it wasn't fair .. .it wasn't fair! She changed her dress, combed her hair, retouched her lipstick, and returned to the sola at the same time as Nicolas. "Nicolas, I must Her voice faltered as he gave her a cool abstracted glance and opened the door for her. A few moments later Pilar and Miklos joined them, and then Florentina announced that their lunch was ready. "Senora de Vega has been telling me about the youngsters and about your job here, Fran," said Johnny, after Dona Maria had said grace. "I must say that if you'd written and told me about it, I should have thought you were pulling my leg." "Why do you say that, Mr. Sarnley?" Pilar enquired. "Francesca is very well suited to care for children." If telepathy were possible, Johnny would have been struck dumb. But although Francesca willed him to make some harmless reply, and even caught his eye with a look of mute but undisguised appeal, he failed to sense her tension. "Is she? I would never have suspected it," he said, with a grin. "I remember her modelling with some kids Once and saying she could have throttled the little monsters." "But they were not like the children here," Francesca said hastily. "Modeling?" Pilar looked momentarily perplexed.

Then she thought she understood. "Ah, you mean to make a likeness as in sculpture. You did not tell us you had an artistic flair, Francesca." "Francesca's no sculptress," Johnny said, with a chuckle. "She was posing as a Glamorous Young Mother, or some such nonsense. You must admit that working here is a pretty far cry from being one of London's top fashion models." In the silence that followed this remark Francesca stared fixedly at her plate, knowing that they were all staring at her and feeling a slow tide of colour creeping up from her throat. "Good lord, do you mean you didn't know?" Johnny asked them, astonished. "We thought Francesca was a secretary," Pilar told him blankly. Johnny laughed. "You have been hiding your light under a bushel, sweetie," he said quizzically. Then, as Francesca raised her head and he saw that she was scarlet with embarrassment, "Well, I'm sorry to blow the gaff on you, but how was I to know you were here incognita, as one might say?" "As Francesca has been too ... modest to reveal the truth about herself, perhaps you will enlighten our ignorance, Mr. Sarnley," Nicolas said smoothly. "Johnny always exaggerates," Francesca put in quickly, in a voice that was not quite steady. "It is true that I used to earn my living as a fashion model, but in England it's quite a .. commonplace-kind of job." "Oh, come off it, Fran. There was nothing commonplace about your career. You were at the top of the tree, and you know it. Before the accident, you were on the cover of all the glossiest of the glossies - and on every other page inside them, too."

"You must forgive me, Senor Sarnley, but I am not familiar with the latest English colloquialisms. What are these 'glossies' you mention?" Dona Maria asked him, with delicately arched brows. "They are the top magazines,' Johnny explained. He looked across the table at Francesca, and it must have been clear to them all that he was head over heels in love with her. "I remember some newspaper columnist once did an article about some of our leading model girls, and she described Fran as 'the prime exponent of the Million Dollar Look' - and how right she was, too," he said warmly. "Fran could make a sack look terrific, and when she's loaded with mink and diamonds she's a knock-out." "Johnny, for heaven's sake -" Francesca began desperately. "But why didn't you tell us you were so successful and famous?"'Pilar cut in. "Oh, Francesca, how exciting! No wonder you have such lovely clothes. How stupid of us not to guess that you were someone special." "Very stupid," Nicolas said crisply. "But you did not want us to guess, did you, Francesca?" She looked at him then, and flinched slightly at the coldly sardonic expression she saw on his face. She longed to be atone with him, to plead for understanding, to say, "Oh, Nicolas, what does it matter? That life was never what I wanted. I wasn't happy .This is where I want to be - in the Valleys with you." Instead, she had to say, "No, I didn't. I was afraid you would... disapprove." "Disapprove? Why should we do that?" Pilar asked. Then she frowned and said slowly, "But you cannot seriously intend to stay with us when you already have such a much more exciting career in England." "No, of course you can't stay here, Fran," Johnny agreed. "I can see that this is a delightful spot for a holiday and all that, but you can't

mean to bury yourself here indefinitely. In fact the whole point of my coming was to fetch you home, via my people's place at Cannes. They're staying at the villa now, so I thought we might spend a couple of weeks there to complete your convalescence. Now that you're quite fit again we can take in the night spots and jazz it up a bit." "I don't want to 'jazz it up.' I want to stay here and get on with my work," Francesca said coldly. "But, darling -" Johnny stopped short. "Well, we'll talk about it later, shall we?" he said soothingly. He turned to Nicholas. "Tell me, senor, do you ski here during the Winter?" Later, when they had reached the coffee stage, Pilar said, "Margarita will look after the babies this afternoon, Francesca. You and Mr. Sarnley must have a great deal to talk about as you have not seen each other for so long." "Perhaps we could stroll down to the village and fix up a room for me. I suppose there is some sort of inn there?" Johnny asked her. "There is no inn in Valyos, but you are most welcome to stay with us, senor," said Dona Maria. "No, please, do not protest. We insist you stay here." "It's extremely kind of you," he said gratefully. "Naturally I shall be delighted to stay here, if it won't put you out too much." "Not at all. It is a pleasure. Now, if you will excuse me, I will retire for my rest and we will meet again this evening." Helped by her grandson, the old lady rose from her chair and moved stiffly indoors. "Why don't you take Mr. Sarnley for a walk, Francesca? If he has been driving for two days, no doubt he will be glad to stretch his legs," Pilar suggested pleasantly, as she and Miklos also stood up.

"I don't think you're very pleased to see me," Johnny said, in a puzzled tone, some minutes later. He and Francesca were still sitting at the table, but she had not looked at him since the others had left them alone. It was on the tip of her tongue to flare, "Why should I be? You've probably wrecked my whole future." But she knew it would not ease her misery to hurt Johnny, so she pushed back her chair and said, "Let's go for that walk, shall we?" They were some distance from the house before Johnny caught her hand and tucked it through his arm. "Are you mad at me for arriving unannounced, sweetie? I was half afraid that if I let you know I was coming, you might skip off somewhere else." "Why should I do that?" she asked dully. "Well, you have been behaving in a rather eccentric way since you came out; of hospital, haven't you?" Johnny said mildly. "I mean, first of all you pick this extraordinary place for a holiday and make Susan swear not to tell a soul where you are. And then, when she's expecting you back, you write to say you're staying on for a spell. You don't say why, or for how long - only that it might be a good idea for her to find another flat-mate. All rather cloak and dagger, don't you think? That's why she finally gave in and told me your address. She was getting really worried about you, poor kid. If they run to a telegraph service in these parts, I must send her a wire to ease her mind." "You'll have to go back to Escaldes to do that," Francesca said shortly, momentarily forgetting that the Casa Vieja was on the telephone. "Then I'll do it tomorrow on our way back to the frontier. We'll have to make a pretty early start if we're going to make Cannes in one day. We may have to stop overnight at Montpellier."

She stopped walking and faced him. "Johnny, I meant what I said at lunch. I have a job here and I intend to stay. I'm not coming with you to Cannes." "Oh, now, Fran, be reasonable," he began. "I am being reasonable," she said stubbornly. "I like it here. I don't care if I never see London again. There's nothing you can say to change my mind." "My dear girl, have you thought what this place must be like in the middle of winter? Do you realise that the French frontier is impassable then, arid that the only way out is through Spain? Of all the benighted places -" "I know all that. I know far more about the Valleys than you do, Johnny - and I'm staying." "Oh, don't be a fool - you can't stay." Johnny was beginning to lose his temper. "You aren't cut out for a primitive life in the wilds. What do they pay you for helping with these kids? Practically nothing, I suppose. I never heard of anything so dotty in my life. You simply aren't the type to cut adrift from normal life and devote yourself to good works and penury." "You're being melodramatic. There was nothing penurious -about the lunch you've just eaten, was there?" Francesca said frostily. "It was a far better meal than one gets in most restaurants in London. We live very well here." "That's just quibbling, and you know it. The essential thing is that you're totally unsuited to this set-up. It's as crazy as me shunting off to a monastery," Johnny exclaimed angrily. "If you want my opinion, 1 think you ought to have a check-up."

"Are you suggesting that I'm off my head?" Francesca enquired icily. "No, of course not," Johnny said hurriedly. He hesitated, frowning. "But people do get some pretty weird fixations after they've been badly concussed, I believe," he added guardedly. "Oh, darling, don't lode like that," he went on quickly, catching hold of her arm again. "All I meant was that this 'new life' idea may be something which does happen to people after a serious illness. Let's face it, Fran. If, six months ago, anyone had suggested that you should pack in your career to be a factotum in an orphanage, you'd have thought they were addled." "Yes, I would - six months ago," she agreed. "But it just so happens that six months ago I was utterly miserable. Now I'm happy - or I was until you arrived." He flinched as if she had struck him, and Francesca at once regretted the wounding words. "Oh, Johnny, I'm sorry," she said remorsefully. "But I told you in London that there could never be anything serious between us. If only you had accepted it!" "I shall never accept it," he said, in a low voice. "I love you.. .and I know we're right for each other." "But we aren't, Johnny - we aren't!" she exclaimed passionately. "Don't you understand? The way I was before the accident wasn't the real me. I- I was putting on an act. I was only pretending to be a... a sophisticated butterfly kind of girl. I'd been hurt and disillusioned, so I pretended I didn't give a damn about anything, that I was hardboiled and blasé and just living for kicks. But it was only a facade because I was so afraid of being hurt again." "You'd been hurt? Who by? You never told me," Johnny said, puzzled.

"Oh, it's all dead and buried how... it was never really the tragedy I made of it," Francesca said, with a shrug, "I've only mentioned it because I must make you see that you don't really know me at all, Johnny." He stared at her for a moment, and she had a defeated feeling she would never succeed in convincing him that what she hid said was both true and unalterable. But Johnny did not launch another exhausting argument. He said quietly, "Maybe you don't know me either, Fran. But let's leave it for the moment, shall we? Come on back to the house. Susan suggested I should bring some more of your clothes with me, and I've also got a present for you." His gift was a beautiful Dior brooch made of paste aquamarines and pearl drops. Francesca did not want to accept it, but felt it would be ungracious and hurtful to refuse the lovely thing when Johnny had brought it such a long way for her. Among the clothes Sue had sent was a simple boat- necked sleeveless dress of vivid coral Tricel linen. Before dinner that night, Francesca took the dress along to Pilar's bedroom. She explained to the Spanish girl that her flat-mate had sent some more dresses, and said, "I don't want to offend you, Pilar, but I wondered if you would care to try on this dress. I've only worn it once, and somehow it isn't quite right for me. But it would look wonderful on you with your lovely black hair and dark eyes," "Oh, Francesca, it's beautiful. But I could not possibly accept such an expensive dress, and it is much too elegant for me," Pilar demurred.

"It wasn't at all expensive, and it is very plain ... quite suitable for wearing in the evening. Slip it on and see what you think," Francesca urged her. So Pilar took off the pink-and-blue print which she had been going to wear that night, and let Francesca help her into the glowing coral dress and zip it up. "Yes, it does suit you. I thought it would," Francesca said, fastening the matching suede belt and stepping back to study the effect. "Why, yes it does, doesn't it?" the older girl said, in surprise. "But are you sure you don't like it, Francesca? I should think anything would suit you." "This doesn't. Please accept it, Pilar - unless you think your grandmother and Nicolas will disapprove." "Why should they mind? They will think it is very generous of you." Pilar looked in her mirror again, turning herself this way and that and smoothing the dress over her hips in the universal manner of a woman who sees herself in a new and more attractive light. "Well, if you are certain you do not care for it..." "Quite certain," Francesca told her positively. "Now you need a lipstick to match. I think I have one in my makeup case. I'll run back and fetch it." She returned a few minutes later with a toning lipstick, a pot of subtle ultramarine eyeshadow, and a pair of coral and gilt ear-clips. "Let me just put a little of this shadow on your lids - only a touch, I promise," she said persuasively. The others were already on the patio when they went downstairs. The three men rose to their feet with the faintly perplexed expressions of

males who are suddenly conscious that a woman has "unsuspected charms, but who do not understand the mechanics of her transformation. "Francesca has made me a present of this dress. Isn't it kind of her? Do you like it on me?" Pilar asked her grandmother. To Francesca's relief, the old lady agreed that the dress was most becoming. "You look delightful, senorita," Johnny said gallantly. Nicolas, too, smiled at his sister as he handed her a glass of sherry. But Francesca guessed that it was Miklos's reaction which was most important to Pilar, and she willed the Hungarian to say something complimentary. He did. "I have never seen you looking so well, Pilar," he said, with his rare and charming smile. And his tone and the way he looked at her made the Spanish girl flush with pleasure. After supper Miklos and Pilar went off on their usual rounds of the dormitories, and the other four took coffee in the sola. Somewhat to Francesca's surprise, Johnny placed himself beside Dona Maria and appeared to be very anxious to make a good impression on the old lady. Francesca and Nicolas sat side by side on a couch, but Nicolas did not engage her in a separate conversation. He listened to his grandmother and the young Englishman and occasionally contributed a remark. Francesca only spoke when Johnny appealed to her to confirm something he had said. Dona Maria went upstairs, early that night and, before he escorted her to her room, Nicolas also said goodnight.

"Let's stroll round the garden, shall we?" Johnny suggested, when they had gone. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go to bed myself. I have a headache," Francesca said truthfully. Johnny looked disappointed, but he only said, "Oh, poor pet... well, you go up, then. But I think I'll get some air before I turn in. Goodnight, Franny sweet." He slipped an arm lightly round her waist and kissed her cheek. "See you in the morning." While Francesca was undressing. Pilar tapped on the door. She had come to return the borrowed ear-clips. She apologised for her absence since dinner, but said that she and Miklos had been talking and had not noticed the time. Francesca gave her some of her own special oil-soaked eye-pads with which to remove the blue lid-shadow. As Pilar seemed fascinated by all the little pots and tubes in her make-up case, Francesca explained their purpose and suggested that Pilar could counteract the oiliness of her skin by using a toning lotion and an occasional refining pack. "Pilar, now that you know what J used to do in England, you don't feel that I can never fit in here, do you?" she asked anxiously, while the Spanish girl was trying out her eyelash-curlers. Pilar replaced the instrument on the dressing table, and said slowly, "So far you have fitted in very well, Francesca. But I confess I cannot understand why you wish to throw away such an exciting and glamorous career." "Being a fashion model isn't really so very glamorous and exciting," Francesca told her dryly. "It may seem so to outsiders, but actually it's extremely hard work. One's days are a hectic rush of appointments sometimes there's barely time to snatch a sandwich lunch - and when

one goes abroad, there's never time to explore or relax. I was never as happy as I am here, Pilar." The other girl studied her thoughtfully for some moments. Then she said, "This Englishman who has arrived ... he wants to marry you, I think." "Yes, he does, but I've already told him that it wouldn't workout." "He is very nice, Francesca. Are you sure you have not been too hasty in refusing him? From certain things he has said, I imagine that he could give you a very comfortable life as well as his love." "Is a comfortable/life so important?" Francesca said, with a shrug. "Not to someone like me," Pilar said evenly. "But it is not to be despised. In time, if you remain at the Casa with us, perhaps you may come to miss the luxuries of life ... your elegant clothes... these expensive face creams." Francesca turned away to the window. "I knew this would happen. I knew, if I told you the truth, you would change your opinion of me," she said in a low tone. "Oh, but that is not true, my dear," Pilar followed her and put a hand on her shoulder. "You must know that we have all become very fond of you. We should be most sorry to lose you. But one must face the facts. You have not been bred to this life. You have not yet experienced the discomforts and the isolation of a winter in the Valleys. It would be foolish to cast aside your old life until you are very sure you can accept the many disadvantages of your new one. If we urge you to reconsider this matter, it is not because our regard for you has lessened. It is only that we want you to be happy."

Francesca traced the grain of the wooden window ledge. "Has Nicolas expressed any views? Does he think I ought to go back?" she asked evenly. "I do not know what Nicolas thinks. I have seen very little of him today. But in any case it is not for him to offer an opinion," Pilar said. "This is something which only you can decide, Francesca." "But I have already made up my mind. I did that when you first offered me a post here. If Johnny hadn't turned up so unexpectedly we wouldn't be discussing this at all - at least not until the end of my trial period." "You would never have told us about your past life;?" Pilar asked curiously. Francesca bit her lip. "Yes, in time... when I felt I had proved myself here. I'm not naturally deceitful, Pilar. It was just that... that I didn't want you to think of me as someone frivolous and useless until, as I said, I had proved myself." There was a pause while the Spanish girl turned back to the dressing table and stood looking abstractedly at the contents of Francesca's open trinket box. At last she said, "Then I think the best thing will be to hold to our original arrangement and not discuss the future until the end of your trial period, Francesca. But what Senor Johnny will say-" "I'm very fond of Johnny, but I couldn't ever marry him. I'm afraid he'll just have to accept that," Francesca said positively.

Next morning, while she was minding the little children, she had another talk with Johnny.

"... so it's no use arguing, Johnny. I'm determined to stay here - at least until I've worked out my probationary period. There's nothing you can say to change my mind," she ended firmly, after repeating all she had told him the previous day. But Johnny did argue, and his objections were so vehement that, in the end, Francesca was forced to play the only card which might convince him that her decision was unshakeable. "It isn't only that I'm not in love with you, Johnny dear," she told him unhappily, when he had said coaxingly that he would be more than satisfied to have her affection, and hope for more later. "The fact is that... -that there's someone else." "Someone else ?" Johnny repeated, in a stupefied tone. Francesca nodded: "Yes, I'm afraid so. I didn't want to tell you, but... well, you've more or less forced my hand." "But there can't be anyone else," he protested. "You're making this up to put me off. I don't believe it, Franny. There was no one else when you left London, or you would have said so then. Don't try to convince me that you've taken a toss for some Andorran clodhopper. It just won't wash." "I wouldn't describe him as a clodhopper," she said quietly. "He may live in Andorra, but he's as civilised and sophisticated as you are." "Good God! Not this Hungarian character ... Doctor What's-his-name ?" "No, not Miklos. He belongs to Pilar. At least that's the way things are heading." She drew in her breath. "The man I love is Nicolas," she said, very low. "Senor de Vega?" Johnny looked even more flabbergasted.

"So you see, I must stay here," Francesca went on. "If ... if things work out, I may spend the rest of my life here." After a moment, Johnny took out his cigarettes and lit one. His hand shook slightly as he flicked his lighter into flame. "I see," he said heavily. "I suppose I might have guessed it. Come to think of it, de Vega is the type who does knock women sideways. Does he feel the same way about you?" "I - I think so." Francesca's colour deepened as she remembered what had happened in the shepherd's hut. "I'm not sure yet." Johnny was beginning to recover from the first shock of her revelation. "I think you're crazy," he said bluntly. "You keep telling me that you and I have nothing in common. What the devil can you have in common with a Spaniard? I grant you the chap doesn't look too much of a dago - at least he doesn't stink of pomade like most of 'em do - but he's still a foreigner." Francesca went white. "How dare you call Nicolas a dago!" she blazed furiously. "As a matter of fact he's half English, but even if he were not it wouldn't make any difference to me. I loathe people who talk about 'dagos' and wops' in that slighting tone. It only shows how damnably ignorant and insular they are." "There's no need to explode," Johnny said coolly. "I may be ignorant and insular, but I'm not alone in my opinion that mixed marriages seldom work out. For all I know, de Vega may be a direct descendant of El Cid, or Isabella and Ferdinand. It doesn't alter the fact that he's a foreigner and therefore totally different from us."

"I don't agree. His mother was English. He trained for his profession in England. He speaks English as well as you do. Why is he so different from us?" Francesca demanded. "Because people of different nationalities have different ways of looking at life. If de Vega is fifty per cent Spanish, then he's bound to have some Spanish points of view - and they could be pretty vital ones," Johnny told her evenly. "Probably his attitude to women is largely the Spanish one." "So?" Francesca said tersely. Johnny shrugged. "So if you married him you'd have a darned sight less freedom than you're used to. Spanish wives are pretty much on a par with English wives in the good old Victorian days, I'd say. They aren't partners. They're glorified chattels." "How on earth do you know?" Francesca asked coldly. "There's nothing particularly subservient about Dona Maria and Pilar, is there? You're prejudiced, Johnny. You think everyone west of Dover is a lower form of life. You are the one whose outlook is Victorian." Johnny ground out the end of his cigarette. "What do you expect me to say?" he asked gruffly. "I'm crazy about you, Fran. Am I supposed to be pleased when you tell me you've fallen for someone else?" He caught her hand and gripped it. "Are-you really serious about this? Are you sure it's not just a dizzy infatuation?" "I'm serious, Johnny. I'm not blind to all the drawbacks, but I accept them," she said steadily. He looked into her eyes for a long time, as if he were searching for some flicker of uncertainty in her clear, steadfast gaze.

Finally, on a note of unwilling resignation, he said, "In that case I may as well be on my way. But if things don't pan out... if anything should go wrong ... you will let me know, won't you, Franny ? At least promise me that." She nodded. "Yes, I'll promise that, Johnny, But please don't count on it, will you? The best thing would be for you to forget all about me." "Could you forget de Vega?" he asked wryly. Francesca bit her lip. "I'm sorry: that was a stupid thing to say, I suppose. But I hate to feel I've messed up your life." "I guess it was pretty much of a mess before we even met," Johnny said ruefully. "You've no reason to blame yourself, Fran. You never tried to make me fall for you. Maybe that's why I did," he added reflectively. "Ah well, '-c'est la vie ... che sara, sara, and so on. I'll go and pack my bag." Francesca watched him stroll back to the house, her heart aching with compassion for him. Would he now revert to his former purposeless, pleasure-bent ways? she wondered uneasily. Or would this unhappy episode in his life have the same salutary effect as the experience with Paul had had on her? She hoped so. She was beginning to realise that Johnny Sarnley, the seemingly dedicated playboy and philanderer, was a much more worthwhile person than either she or anyone else had ever credited. Maybe, if he found the right girl - someone who loved him for himself and not for the Sarnley millions - he would really make something of his life. Johnny left the Casa Vieja soon after lunch, while Nicolas was still out on a call. After the sound of the sports car's engine had died away in the distance, Francesca took her charges down to the stream below the house. She sat on the bank and watched them splashing about in the

water, as happy as a brood of ducklings, her own spirits badly in need of a lift. Presently she saw the jeep approaching, and her pulses quickened. Nicolas braked on the . Casa side of the plank bridge. But he did not get out. "Where is your friend?" he asked. "Johnny left after lunch. He wants to spend the night in Perpignan. He asked me to thank you for putting him up," Francesca told him. "I see." Nicolas's expression was enigmatic. Then one of the children slipped and hint herself on a boulder. While Francesca was kissing the place better and drying the little girl's tears, Nicolas drove on to the house.

Johnny's departure made no difference to Nicolas's new attitude to her, Francesca found, in the days that followed. She saw him only at mealtimes, and not always then, because he was out a great deal of the time now. It could be that there was suddenly more call for his professional services, but Francesca suspected that he stayed away fpm the Casa to avoid her. At night, after the evening meal, he rarely joined the others in the sola, but went out for a walk or to his workshop in the cellars. When Francesca asked Pilar what he did down there, his sister said he was making toys for the children. She did not seem to think that there was anything odd about her brother's recent withdrawal from the family circle, and her manner towards the English girl was the same as it had always been. But it seemed to Francesca that, of late, Dona Maria looked at her almost as coldly and distantly as did her grandson.

One night, about a week after Johnny's brief visit, Francesca was so discomfited by the feeling that the old lady was watching her with veiled dislike that she folded away her sewing and said she was going to bed early. But when she reached the galeria, which was a kind of upstairs hallway peculiar to Spanish houses, she heard a muffled knocking from the depths of the building. Suddenly she felt she could not endure another hour of this unexpressed rift between herself and Nicolas. She had to talk to him. The steps leading to the basement lay behind a door in the lower hall. Francesca left her sewing on a chair in the galeria and went quietly downstairs again. She had not been in the cellars before, and, in the light from a small lamp burning at the foot of the steps, she saw that the basement ran under the whole length of the house. Through the low archways which replaced the door on the ground floor she could see a wine vault ranged with racks of cobwebbed bottles, and a food store full of bulging sacks of grain where blackened smoked hams and cascades of shiny green tomatoes hung from the rafters. The central chamber into which the steps descended was a tobacco and apple store, both crops being spread out on tiers of wooden trays, the apples to be used up during the winter, the sun-dried leaves of tobacco to he maturing for a year or two. Only one section of the cellar had a door, and it was from behind this that she could hear Nicolas using a plane and whistling softly. Her courage dwindling, she forced herself to cross the worn flagstones and tap on the closed door. The sound of the plane stopped, and Nicolas called "Come in." A moment later she was facing him across a wide shaving-strewn work bench.

His eyebrows went up at the sight of her. "Am I wanted upstairs?" he said, after a moment. She shook her head. "Nicolas, may I talk to you for a few minutes?" "Of course," he said coolly. "What's the trouble?" It was the question he had asked on the day she had .begun to win little Peter's confidence - but though the words were the same, his tone and look were very different. Francesca closed the door behind her, and thrust her hands, into the pockets of her skirt to hide their trembling. It was years - probably as far back as her schooldays - since she had been as nervous of anyone as she was now of Nicolas de Vega. And he did nothing to ease her tension, but only stood there, one hand on the plane, waiting for her to explain herself. "Nicolas, I'm sorry I lied to you about my job in England," she said unsteadily, her cheeks growing hot with embarrassment. He shrugged. "It doesn't matter. I dare say you had a reason. Forget it, Francesca." "How can I forget it when you obviously haven't?" she said wretchedly. "You are imagining things," he said curtly. "I was surprised to learn the truth about you, naturally - and somewhat at a loss to see why you should have wanted to conceal it - but I have not lost any sleep over it, I assure you. Why should I?" Francesca flinched at the cutting negligence of his tone. "You haven't been... the same," she said, very low.

"The same?" He stepped back to lean against a tool chest and took a pack of French cigarettes from the pocket of his shirt. He lit one without taking his eyes off her. "The same as before Johnny Sarnley came here." Nicolas's eyes narrowed suddenly. "You mean with particular reference to the night before Sarnley arrived, don't you, Francesca?" (

Her breath seemed to catch in her throat, and her whole body tensed.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps I should have apologised for that ... episode," Nicolas went on evenly. "But I assumed - mistakenly, it seems - that you had understood why it happened and would prefer to forget all about it." "Forget it!" She stared at him incredulously. "Why not? You must know that these things occur from time to time. You are a woman, not an inexperienced schoolgirl. It was not the first time you had been kissed." "What has that to do with it?" she said blankly. "Oh, come now, you are not so naive as to think one kiss has any great consequence. Or are you?" he enquired sardonically. His mockery stung her into anger. "You mean because I was a model, I'm bound to have been fairly free with my kisses," she said bitterly. "I didn't say that." "You implied as much." "You are quite wrong. I meant nothing of the kind."

"Then what did you mean?" she demanded. Nicolas crushed out his cigarette. He, too, looked angry now. His tanned skin was taut from cheekbone to chin, the muscles of his jaw clearly defined. Beneath frowning dark brows, his eyes were the colour of tempered steel. "I think you are being deliberately obtuse," he said icily. "What happened at the hut that night was not so very extraordinary in the circumstances. I accept the blame for what occurred, and I regret it but I am not prepared to grovel, if that's what you want." "I -1 never expected you to grovel. I just don't understand your attitude." Francesca's voice shook, and she had to set her teeth to control her , mouth beginning to quiver. Her throat felt thick. A few minutes more of this and he would reduce her to the final humiliation of crying. "I can't really believe that," he said sceptically, "but if you insist on a detailed exposition,.." He shrugged, waiting for her to say something. It seemed to Francesca that there was a gleam of rather sadistic mockery in his eyes now, and she had a sickening premonition that, in a moment, he would shatter all her dreams. But pride would not let her back down. If this was to be the end. When she did not say anything, Nicolas gave another negligent shrug. "Very well," he said silkily, "I will try to be more explicit. But remember, you asked for it." Again he paused, and again Francesca said nothing. "My 'attitude', as you put it, is not so very mystifying, I shouldn't have thought," he went on. "It's merely a sensible precaution against any repetition of what happened that night at the hut. You'll probably deny

it, but we've both known from the first that we're attracted." He arched an eyebrow at her. "Do you deny it, Francesca?" he enquired softly. Her vivid flush and swiftly averted gaze gave him the answer. "How very English," he said, in an amused tone. "Is it so embarrassing to admit that you had wanted me to kiss you? - that you'd been waiting for it to happen?" "That isn't true! " "Isn't it? It's true for me," he said coolly. "I wanted to kiss you the second time we met." "And now you have, and ... that's that," she said unsteadily. "I think I'd better leave... go back to England." "No!" The emphatic, staccato monosyllable made Francesca blink at him, startled. For one instant there was a look on Nicolas's face which she could not read. Then his expression became impassive again. "Don't be foolish," he said evenly. "Nothing has happened which makes it impossible for us to go on living in the same house. Like all women, you dramatise things,: Francesca. Try taking life as it comes. Tomorrow is another day. Now run along to bed and stop worrying. Good night." She watched him turn to a rack on the wall, take down a brace, and select a bit to fit into it. Then, without answering his good night, she left the Workroom, closed the door quietly behind her, and went quickly upstairs to her room.

She did not see Nicolas at all the next day. After the evening meal she went for a walk, and, for the umpteenth time, went over every word and nuance of the exchange in the workroom the night before. But the more she puzzled over Nicolas's strange, contradictory, manner, the more confused and uncertain she became. First he had dismissed the incident at the shepherd's hut as something of little importance which was best forgotten. Then he had admitted she attracted him. And finally, and with peculiar vehemence, he had denied that there was any reason for her to leave the Casa. So what was she supposed to think? On her way back to the house, she met Miklos Rador, who had also been out for a stroll. "You look tired, Francesca. Aren't you feeling well? I thought at supper that you seemed to have a headache," he said kindly. "I had, but it's gone now. I'm all right, thank you, .Miklos." "Are you sure?" he asked doubtfully, falling into step beside her. "I do not wish to appear inquisitive, but I have noticed that you have been very quiet and preoccupied lately. If I could help in any way -" He made a gesture with his pipe. Francesca hesitated. "Miklos, What do you think about my staying here ... now that you know I used to be a fashion model?" she asked him, on impulse. "Do you believe that a leopard can never change its spots?" "A leopard ?" he said, puzzled. "Oh, sorry - it's an expression meaning that people don't alter themselves... at least not their basic characteristics."

The Hungarian, nodded. "Ah, yes, I understand now. There is a similar expression in my own language, but it is usually applied to people who have lived very bad lives. I am sure this is not true of you, Francesca." She smiled faintly. "No, but I have lived a very different life from the one I lead here. Now I've chosen to stay here, and I think Pilar and Nicolas doubt my ability to adapt. I'm beginning to wonder myself. That's why I asked what you thought," she said worriedly. Miklos re-lit his pipe and waited until it was drawing satisfactorily before he answered. "It is always difficult to advise other people on matters of importance," he said slowly. "In this case I think only time can solve your problem, Francesca. Why not wait until you have experienced an Andorran winter before you come to a final decision?" "Yes, I suppose you're right," she agreed. "I'm sorry, Miklos. I thought not to bother you with my worries. I expect you have problems of your own." "Who has not?" he said wryly. "But if I have learnt anything from life, it is that nothing worth having is easily won. Sometimes the most difficult periods of our lives lead to unexpected rewards. It is a comforting thought when one is in low spirits and nothing seems to go right."

In the days that followed Francesca often walked and talked with Miklos in the evenings. One night, after she had seen him looking at Pilar with unmistakable longing in his eyes, Francesca dared to say, "Miklos, don't be angry - I don't mean to be impertinent - but why don't you tell Pilar how you feel about her ?" For a moment his face stiffened and she thought he was going to snub her. Then he sighed and said ruefully, "So you have guessed how it is

with me? I had hoped ho one knew, but it is not easy to disguise one's feelings always." "Must you disguise them? Perhaps Pilar feels the same way," Francesca suggested gently. "She has told you this?" he asked urgently, his thin face lighting up with hope. She hesitated, then shook her head. "No, Pilar is not the type to confide her deepest feelings. But I know she admires you tremendously." The doctor's expression became sombre again: "How can I ask her to be my wife?" he said heavily. "I have nothing to offer a woman ... no family, no money, nothing." "Oh, Miklos, don't be so foolish. Pilar doesn't care about money, except to buy things for the children. I think you have a great deal to offer. You are a good doctor, and you are kind and understanding. I can't think of any two people who have more in common with each other. And I'm sure Dona Maria and Nicolas would be delighted if you two decided to marry," Francesco assured him. "But supposing she does not return my love?' If I declare myself, and Pilar refuses me, I shall have to leave the Casa Vieja," he said gloomily. "I could not remain here knowing there was no hope for me, and causing her embarrassment." 'That's a risk you'll just have to take," Francesca said bracingly. "Consider Pilar's position. If she loves you, but you never give her any sign how you feel, it must be absolute agony for her. At least a man can put himself out of his misery. A girl can only sit about wondering." "You really think I stand a chance with her?" he asked earnestly. "I'm sure you do - a very good chance."

He smiled then. "Bless you, Francesca. You have made me feel that perhaps, after all, I am not such a bad bargain. I will speak to Pilar. Not tonight, but as soon as a suitable time offers itself." "Don't leave it too long, or you may get cold feet again," Francesca warned him teasingly. "Then I shall come to you to restore my courage. But I do not think that will be necessary. As you say, this is a risk which every man must take." They were nearly back at the house, and when they said good night in the hall, Miklos surprised Francesca by taking both, her hands and kissing them. "Thank you for your encouragement. You are a very sweet person. Good night, Francesca," he said softly.

The following morning Nicolas went to Toulouse. "Is there anything you would like me to get for you?" he asked Francesca, when they passed each other in the hall shortly before he was due to leave. "I don't think so, thank you. I hope you have a good trip," she answered in an expressionless voice, before she turned to go up the staircase. Her foot was on the first stair when Nicolas caught her hand and clamped it to the baluster rail. "Francesca, wait a minute!" he said roughly. With his hand pinning hers to the rail, she had no choice but to stand still, her eyes on a level with his.

"Yes?" she said unsteadily. "Oh... nothing!" He released her hand and thrust his own into the pocket of his trousers. "You are certain there is nothing I can get for you? It will be no trouble. I have to do some shopping for Pilar." 'Thank you, but there's nothing I need." She had a crazy impulse to lean over the rail and kiss him good-bye - to say, "Be careful, Nicolas. Don't drive too fast over the pass." But it was Nicolas who said, "Take care of yourself' - and a moment later he had gone. Francesca went slowly upstairs. She did not really believe in premonitions, but she had a frightening feeling that she might never see him again. Nicolas was away two nights. The Hay he was expected back, Juana came to tell Francesca that Pilar wished to see her in the small library-cum-office which led off the galeria. The Spanish girl was standing by the window when Francesca answered the summons. Her manner was curiously formal as she said, "Close the door, please, Francesca. I want to have a private talk with you." "Is something wrong, Pilar? You look upset." The sense 1 of foreboding which had been lurking at the back of Francesca's mind throughout Nicolas's absence became a sharp sickening fear. "What is it?" she asked urgently. s. Pilar sat down behind her desk and began to tidy the papers on it. "You remember we agreed that you should spend a period of trial here before we came to any definite decision Francesca?" she said quietly.

Francesca felt relief flowing through her. So there had not been an accident after all. How silly of her to panic like that. "Yes, of course I remember," she agreed. The older girl did not look at her. "Well, I have been thinking the matter over, and now I have made up my mind. I am sorry, Francesca, but I do not think you are suited to become a permanent member of our staff. In fact I feel it would be best if you returned to England immediately."

CHAPTER SIX THERE was a protracted silence while Francesca recovered from the first stunning impact of this blunt ultimatum, and Pilar continued to rearrange the things on her desk. At last Francesca said flatly, "I see... well, in that case I'd leave as soon as possible." Strangely, all she felt at the moment was a kind of relief that the decision to go or stay had been taken out of her hands. Pilar seemed startled by her compliance. For the first time since Francesca had entered the room, the Spanish girl flashed a swift troubled glance at her. "You agree?" she asked, quickly looking away again. "What else can I do? It is your hospicio, Pilar - you know what is best for it. I - I'm only sorry I haven't fulfilled your confidence." "I also am sorry," Pilar said uncomfortably. "I blame myself for not foreseeing that..." She stopped short, flushing and biting her lip. "What will you do?" she asked stiffly. "Will you return to your former career now ? " "I don't know yet. I'll have to think about it." Francesca's voice shook slightly on the last words. The numbness of shock was wearing off. She was beginning to feel side and shivery. "Perhaps I can leave tomorrow," she said huskily. "If I am going, I should like to go at once, if you don't mind." And without waiting for Pilar's reply, she went quickly from the room. An hour later, when she had already begun to pack some of her clothes, she heard Nicolas come home. Some of the children had heard the jeep approaching, and had run through the house to meet him. Francesca looked out of her window and saw them crowding round the

vehicle, ^asking about his trip and what he had brought back. Then Nicolas climbed out of the driving seat, and she hastily drew back into the bedroom. But even the sound of his voice from below was like a probe touching an exposed nerve. She closed her eyes and pressed her hands over her ears. If only she could have left while he was away! How could she bear to say good-bye to him? Towards supper time she heard Miklos speaking to one of the children in the corridor. Opening her door, she said, "Miklos, I have a headache and I'm not a bit hungry. I think I'll go to bed early. Would you tell Florentina not to set a place for me, please?" "Of course - and I will give you something for your head," the Hungarian said concernedly. "No, don't bother. I've already taken some aspirins. I don't want to cause a fuss," Francesca replied quickly, and she closed her door before he could question her more closely. However, ten minutes later the doctor returned and called through the door that he had brought a bowl of soup for her, so she had to let him in. "Pilar has just told me you have decided to leave us, Francesca. This is a very sudden decision, is it not? Has something happened to upset you? Have you had some bad news from England?" he asked gently. "Pilar told you ..." Francesca stopped short, turning away. "Yes .. . yes, I'm leaving, Miklos," she agreed, in an expressionless voice. "I told you I wasn't sure I was suited to live here. Now I've made up my mind to go ... home." "Does Nicolas know of this ?" the doctor asked quietly.

Fortunately Francesca still had her back to him, so he did not see her flinch. "Not unless Pilar has told him. But it's not his concern," she answered carefully. "Isn't it?" Miklos said dryly. "I do not wish to pry into your most private feelings, Francesca, but I had the impression that Nicolas played an important part in your original decision to stay at the Casa." Francesca jerked round. "What do you mean?" she demanded sharply. "Forgive me - perhaps I have been misled, but I thought you felt for Nicolas as ... as I feel for Pilar," he said, with a gesture. It took all her will power not to show any reaction. "What an extraordinary idea," she said in a cool measured voice. "It is not so?" he asked, frowning. Francesca sat down on the edge of the bed and took the bowl of soup from the tray he had set on the locker. "Certainly not," she said crisply. "Thank you for bringing this up, Miklos. Don't let me keep you from your own mail. Good night." He did not move for a moment, and she knew without looking up that he had not been convinced by her denial. But he only said, "Good night, Francesca. Sleep well." Then he left the room and closed the door quietly after him. As soon as he had gone, Francesca thrust the bowl back on tile tray and sank back on the bed. So Miklos knew - and who else? Was it obvious to them all?

Her hands clenched on the coverlet, and she cringed with humiliation. Then a new thought occurred to her. Was it possible that she had been asked to leave because of Nicolas? ... because Pilar knew how she felt about him, and knew too that her brother would never reciprocate Francesca's love for him ? About an hour later, when she had dragged herself upright and was starting to undress, there was a tap at the door. Thinking it must be Miklos again, Francesca re- buttoned her blouse, ran her fingers through her thumbled hair and opened the door. But it was Nicolas who stood in the passage. He did not seem to notice the state she was in, but said urgently, "Francesca, when did you last see Jan ? " "Jan? I - I'm not sure. Not since this morning, I don't think. Why? What's wrong?" "He seems to be missing," Nicolas said grimly. "No one can remember seeing him since lunchtime. We've already searched the outbuildings, but there isn't a sign of him." "What do you think has happened? What are you going, to do?" "My guess is that he went off on one of his rambles and has had some kind of accident. We shall have to comb the whole area." "Yes, of course. I'll just change my shoes and put on a sweater and then I'll come down," Francesca said briskly, forgetting everything else in her concern for the missing boy. But when she hurried downstairs to find Nicolas distributing" torches and first-aid packs among five of the most senior boys, he would not allow her join the search party.

"No, you must stay here," he told her firmly. "It will be dark soon and you don't know the tracks like the rest of us. You could get lost yourself. Florentina and the girls are going to help, so there will be eleven of us looking for him, You stay with my grandmother in case the boy turns up white we're away." "But I can't sit here doing nothing. You must let me help... please, Nicolas," she appealed. "Sorry, it's out of the question. No, I haven't time to argue. Be a good girl and do as you're told," he said adamantly. "Nicolas is right. You would only be an added worry to us, Francesca," his sister agreed, her tone almost hostile. "Very well," Francesca said flatly, and she turned towards the sola to join Dona Maria. Some time after the searchers had left the house, she remembered that, soon after she had first come to Andorra, an afternoon stroll had led her near a small lake about a quarter of a mile from the Casa Vieja. The lake was out of bounds to the children because it was very deep. But, thinking back, she recalled that the first time she had passed it she had seen a boy in a bright red shirt sitting up a tree on the eyot in the centre of the lake. Since,. at that time, she had not known the place was prohibited, she had though that the little islet was just the kind of spot which would appeal to an imaginative boy. It could be a castle surrounded by a moat, an uncharted tropical island,' or a pirate's stronghold. She had not even wondered how the boy had readied it, and since then she had completely forgotten the incident. But now it had suddenly come back to her and - with a sharp intake of breath - she remembered, too, that Jan had a scarlet cotton shirt.

"Dona Maria, I believe I know where Jan is!" she exclaimed. "I must go and look. It's not one of the places where Nicolas told the others to search for him. If any of them come bade while I'm gone, tell them I'm sure Jan is on the island in the lake. Don't worry: it isn't far, and I know the path." "But the lake is forbidden, Francesca. What makes you think the boy would go to such a place?" the old lady, asked, frowning. "I saw him there once ... ages ago. I'd forgotten all about it." "Madre de Dios! If only you had thought of this before. Go quickly, my child - but take care." "Will you be all right on your own here?"'Francesca asked worriedly. "Certainly - I am not yet helpless. Hurry now! If any of the others return I will tell them to follow you immediately. Ah, pray heaven the boy has not been drowned." Francesca ran out of the house and across the garden. The moon lit the way except where the path to the lake was screened by trees. Once she tripped over an exposed root and almost went sprawling, and further on her skirt caught on a bramble and she ripped it free. But at last she saw the gleam of water ahead of her. When she reached the edge of the lake, she stood panting for some moments before she had enough breath to 'cup her hands round her mouth and call Jan's name. Her shout echoed eerily across the still water. Four times she called, and each time the echo of her voice was followed by nothing but the sibilant rustle of reeds. But when she called a fifth time, she thought she heard a faint answering cry - or was

it only the hoot of an owl or some other night bird? No, there it was again, and she felt sure it came from the island. Kicking off her rope-soled espadrilles, Francesca pulled her sweater over her head and tossed it on a boulder. Then she tugged at the zipper of her dress and stripped that off too. In her bra and briefs, shivering as the night air lapped her warm skin, she stepped down to the water's edge. Even the shallows were ice-cold, and as she advanced cautiously over the slippery jumble of rocks, she felt a thrust of fear. What if the cold brought on cramp, out there where the lake was so deep? But before she had a chance to hesitate, the rocks shelved suddenly and she lost her balance and plunged forward. For a moment the unexpected immersion froze every nerve in her body. Then, instinctively, she struck out. The distance between the lake edge and the eyot was probably no more than two hundred yards, but it seemed like a mile to Francesca. Normally she had no fear of deep water, but now at every stroke she expected to feel the first deadly bite of cramp, and she had an irrational terror of nightmare horrors uncoiling in the black depths beneath her. When at last her feet touched bottom again and she floundered through the rushes surrounding the islet, she was shuddering with cold and taut nerves. She found Jan lying near the foot of a tree. He was unconscious. There was a great oozing gash on his forehead, and his right leg was twisted in an unnatural position, obviously broken. Falling on her knees beside the boy, Francesca touched his pale tear-streaked cheek. His skin felt like marble. "It's all right, Jan, I'm here. We'll Soon have you safely home."

His eyelids flickered, and he moaned and muttered something in his own language. Then, as she chafed one of his thin stone-cold hands, he roused briefly into consciousness and tried to raise himself and clutch at her. The movement, feeble as it was, made him groan with agony and faint again. Francesca's relief at having found him was shortlived. Trying to remember all she had ever read about field first aid, she realised that, half naked and dripping as she was, she could not even provide a warm covering for the boy. Scrambling to her feet, she made a rapid search of the offshore side of the island. Moored to a bush and half- hidden among the rushes was an ancient rowing boat with a single oar and no rowlocks. But once again her relief was only momentary. What use was the boat? She could not possible get Jan aboard it without causing him excruciating pain and probably doing some irreparable damage to his fractured leg. Loath as she was to leave him again, there seemed nothing for it but to swim back across the lake and somehow signal the searchers to return to the Casa to help her. If she lit a bonfire in the garden they would be bound to see it and realise it was intended to recall them. A fire in the garden! Why not a fire here? If only Jan had some matches on him! Rushing back to the place where the boy still lay motionless, she thrust her hands into the pockets of his shorts. String, a clasp knife, stones, a padlock. Ah, thank God, a box of matches.

It did not take her long to gather a pile of dry leaves and brittle twigs. Holding her breath, for there were only three live matches in the box, she struck one into flame and held it to the crisp dead leaves. The smouldered, then caught alight. In seconds the whole heap was burning and the sticks, too, were kindling. Francesca fanned and blew and added more fuel until the fire was blazing strongly. The crackle of wood and the glow of the flames roused Jan again. But he was obviously severely shocked - he could have been lying there for hours! she thought distressfully - and he only whimpered and muttered unintelligibly when she tried to comfort him. She had taken off her watch before Nicolas came to her room, so she had no idea how long she kept the fire going and watched anxiously over Jan. It seemed an eternity. But she felt sure the fire must be visible for miles around, even though the lake itself was out of sight of the Casa Vieja arid the village. At last, when she had used nearly all the dry tinder she could find, she heard hails from across the water. Lanterns and torches flashed on the bank further from the island, and as the moon emerged from behind a bank of clouds, she could make out a boat approaching. Soon she could hear the rhythmic swish of the oars. Miklos was the first to leap ashore, with Nicolas following him. As his torch swept over Francesca, both men gave shocked exclamations. "I'm all right, but Jan has a broken leg. He's over here," she said quickly, hurrying back to him. While Miklos examined the boy, Nicolas fetched some gear from the boat. Luckily they had had the forethought to bring blankets and the big metal first-aid box.

In her thankfulness at seeing them, Francesca had forgotten that she was wearing nothing but her flimsy underwear. But as soon as he had put the equipment down, Nicolas pulled off his sweater and gave it to her. Then he knelt to help attend to the boy. Francesca pulled the sweater over her head and slid her arms into the sleeves. At first the thick wool, warm from Nicolas's body, felt luxuriously comfortable. Yet, now that the worst was over, she began to feel deathly cold and devitalised, and she could not stop shivering. Even with a sectional mountain rescue stretcher, it was no easy task for the two men to get Jan into the boat. But at last they were all safely back at the house, and while the men carried Jan upstairs, with Pilar following to help treat the boy and set his leg, Dona Maria and the cook Shepherded Francesca into the sola. They tucked a rug over her bare legs, plied her with hot milk laced with cognac, and elicited most of the story when Nicolas rejoined them. "I have run a bath for you, Francesca. The sooner you get to bed, the less likely you will be to take a chill," he said briskly. And, before she could demur, he scooped her off the couch and into his arms. "Oh, please put me down. I'm not hurt. I can walk up the stairs," she protested. "Don't worry, I won't drop you," he said dryly. "Yes, let Nicolas carry you, my dear. You have had a most distressing misadventure and we must see that you take no harm from it," agreed Dona Maria. She patted Francesca's arm. "You are a brave girl. We are all very proud of you," she added warmly. "Good night, child. Sleep well."

Francesca did not speak as Nicolas took her up the staircase. He carried her as easily as if she were one of the children, his face only a few inches from hers. At the head of the stairs they met Juana. "I have put the senorita's nightclothes in the bathroom," she said, with a sulky face. "Good. Now run down and fill a hot bottle for her bed, please," Nicolas instructed. He turned along the passage to the bathroom, and outside the door he set Francesca on her feet. "Can you manage by yourself? You don't feel faint?" he asked searchingly. "No, of course not," Francesca said hastily. "I can manage perfectly, thanks." His mouth twitched. "Don't look so alarmed. I wasn't offering to help you myself. But if you feel at all dizzy Florentina could come up and keep an eye on you." "I feel fine. It's Jan you should be worrying about." "He is in good hands. Now hop into the bath, and when you have finished, I will look at those gashes on your legs." "They're only scratches. Really, Nicolas, anyone would think-" "Don't argue, girl. Do as I tell you." He pushed her gently into the bathroom and closed the door. After she had bathed and dried herself, Francesca put on her nightdress and robe, and rinsed out her under- things. Her other clothes she would have to fetch from the lakeside tomorrow morning.

She found Nicolas waiting for her in her room. He made her sit on the edge of the bed while he examined the scratches on her legs and swabbed them with antiseptic lotion. "Your hair is still very wet. It needs a good rubbing. I'll do it for you." He left the bedroom for a few moments and returned with a thick Turkish towel. Francesca submitted to having her hair vigorously rubbed. She was too weary to object to anything now. Nicolas turned away while she obeyed his instructions to climb into bed. Then he hung up her robe and tucked her in. "Are you annoyed because I disobeyed your orders about going out alone?" ?he asked hazily. Perhaps it was Florentines liberal dose of cognac which made her feel that>nothing was very important, that tomorrow was as remote as another planet. "If you hadn't disobeyed me, Jan might still be out there," Nicolas said quietly. He laid his palm briefly on her forehead. "Are you warm enough? Would you like another blanket?" She shook her head, her eyelids heavy with drowsiness. She had never felt so tired in all her life. Fatigue was dulling her senses like an opiate. Within seconds after Nicolas had turned out the lamp and said good night, Francesca was asleep.

When she woke up next-day, Miklos was standing by the bed. "And how is the redoubtable Miss Cornel feeling this morning?" he enquired smilingly, after she had blinked and rubbed her eyes. "No, do not sit up yet. You are to spend the morning in bed. Yes, I insist upon it."

"Oh, Miklos, don't fuss. I'm not ill. How is Jan? He's the one who had a rough time." "Don't worry about Jan. He is doing very well," the doctor told her. "The injury to his leg was only a simple fracture, not difficult to set. Fortunately you had the good sense not to move him until we came. He was very much shocked, of course, and there is severe bruising from his fall, and his forehead has had to be stitched. But he will soon be himself again." "Oh, thank goodness. I was so afraid he might get pneumonia from lying there so long, poor little boy. What a ghastly experience for him. He must have been terrified." "Yes, indeed - but perhaps it will teach him not to disregard our rules in future." "Nicolas won't punish him, will he?" she asked anxiously. "My dear Francesca, Nicolas may be a disciplinarian, but he is not a tyrant, do you think?" the doctor said mildly. "No... no, of course not." Francesca avoided his eyes. "I have some news for you," the Hungarian continued, changing the subject. "Last night I took your advice and asked Pilar to marry me." "Oh, Miklos, what did she say?" "She has accepted me." A slow smile spread over his thin lined face, and all at once he looked so profoundly happy that Francesca felt a catch in her throat. "Dear Miklos, of course she did!" she murmured huskily. "I'm very glad for both of you. I'm sure you'll be terribly happy together."

'Thank you. I shall certainly do my best to make it so." The doctor glanced at his watch. "Now I must tell them you are awake and in need of breakfast. And remember my orders, please. You are not to attempt to get up this morning. After lunch... we will see." Not long after he had left, Pilar arrived with a breakfast tray. She, too, had a new and instantly recognisable radiance about her, Francesca saw, with an inner pang. "Miklos has just told me your wonderful news, Pilar. I'm so pleased. You both deserve every happiness," she said warmly, as she hitched herself into a sitting position. 'Thank you." Pilar's eyes shone. But when she stepped back after banking up the pillows and placing the tray over the younger girl's lap, her expression had clouded. "Please ... may I stay and talk to you while you eat?" she asked, in a curiously diffident tone. "Yes, do." Francesca poured herself a cup of coffee, wondering what was coming. "I - I want to apologise to you," Pilar began awkwardly. "I do not know if you will be able to forgive the way I have behaved, but at least I must try to make you understand." "Forgive you? For what?" "For asking you to leave the Casa Vieja. No" - as Francesca started to speak - "you do not understand the truth of this matter. When I said you must go away yesterday, it was not because I was dissatisfied with your work here ... or for any other good reason. It was because I was jealous of you." "Jealous of me?" Francesca repeated blankly.

"Yes ... jealous." Pilar's cheeks were flushed, and her hands twisted nervously in her lap. "Believe me, you cannot despise me more than I do myself ... and I am sure if Miklos knew he would be disgusted. But you see I have loved him for such a long time, and until last night when we were watching over Jan together, he had never given any sign that he was fond of me, too. A few days ago, when I was told that he had kissed you, I was afraid I had lost him for ever. I hated you for coming here, for being so beautiful and charming. I tried to control my feelings, but I could not. So I planned to drive you away. Oh, Francesca, I am so ashamed." Her face puckered and she fumbled for a handkerchief and pressed it hard against her mouth. Francesca gave her some moments to regain control. Then she said quietly, "Please don't upset yourself, Pilar. I understand. When one is very much in love, one does think all kinds of crazy things. What I don't understand is this business about Miklos kissing me. I'm sure such a thing has never occurred to him. You must know now that he's been in love with you for ages." "Yes, so he has told me," Pilar agreed softly, the glow coming back into her face. Then she frowned again. "But last week, when he walked with you in the garden after supper, I thought -" "Wait a minute! I think I'm beginning to see daylight," Francesca exclaimed, Cutting her short. "Now I come to think of it, Miklos did kiss me one evening - but not in any lover-like way. If you want to know the truth, he'd told me that he was very much in love with you, but that he didn't dare say so because he felt he had nothing to offer. I'd guessed the way you felt about him, so I told him not to be such a pessimist. When we came back to the house he thanked me for encouraging him and kissed my hand." Her mouth tightened. "And I can guess who saw us - and a chance to make mischief," she finished angrily. "It was Juana, wasn't it?" ,

"How did you know? Why should she do such a thing?" Pilar asked perplexedly. "She doesn't like me," Francesca said briefly. "Anyway, it's all cleared up now, so let's forget about it. Pilar. The important thing is that you and Miklos have finally, discovered you love each other. Have you told your grandmother yet? Is she pleased? When are you going to get married?" "Yes, we've told her, and she is delighted. We shall be married very soon." Pilar reached out to touch Francesca's hand. "You are very generous. I do not deserve to be forgiven for such cruel treatment. Can you really forgive me and stay with us ? " "It's forgiven already - but I don't think I'll stay in Andorra, Pilar. I've tried to convince myself that I could settle here - but I know in my heart I don't belong." She expected Pilar to protest, but the older girl only said, "Well, we will talk about it later. You must have breakfast now, and I must do some work. I will come back later." After she had gone, Francesca ate her breakfast, then climbed out of bed and slipped on her robe. There was no one about upstairs, so she went quietly along to the bathroom to wash and clean her teeth. She was back in her room, brushing her hair at the dressing table, when there was a tap at the door. Thinking one of the children had come up to fetch her tray, she called "Come in" and went on brushing. But it was Nicolas who opened the door, raising his eyebrows at seeing her out of bed. "I thought you had orders to rest," he said, closing the door behind him and leaning against it.

"I must freshen up a bit," she said defensively. "You all fuss too much. I hate being stuck in bed when I'm not ill." "Nevertheless you will do as Miklos thinks best," he told her firmly. "Get back into bed now. I want to have a talk with you." Francesca put down the brush, but she did not move. "Oughtn't we to have a chaperon?" she asked coolly. He took two swift paces forward, and she thought he was going to force her to do as he wished. But he moved past her to the window. "Flippancy doesn't suit you - and I'm not in the mood for a fencing match," he said evenly, over his shoulder. "Perhaps I'm not in the mood for a talk," Francesca retorted. As if she had not spoken, he said, "Pilar tells me you have decided to leave us." 'That's right" Francesca picked up the brush again. " He swung about. "Why ?" "Because I don't belong here, that's why!" "You mean it's too dull ... too isolated? You've begun to miss London?" "Yes ... no ... oh, Nicolas, it's not as simple as that. There are many reasons. I can't possibly define them all. What difference does it make why I want to leave? I do, and that's all there is to it." "What difference does it make! Nombre de Dios! If you don't know that -" One stride and he was gripping her shoulders, his grey eyes narrowed and brilliant. "It makes all the difference," he said fiercely. "If you can't be happy in the Valleys, then I must come to England."

She trembled, her heart beginning to race. "I - I don't understand what you mean." "This," said Nicolas thickly, and, pulling her against him, he kissed her. A long time later, he straightened and drew a deep breath. "Have I made myself clear now ? " he asked. Francesca opened her eyes to see a smile tilting the corners of his mouth. "Not very," she murmured weakly. He laughed and hugged her close again. "You know, amada, I think it was a mistake to try to keep my head after I'd lost my heart," he said ruefully. Then, his lips against her forehead, "Oh, God, if you knew how difficult it has been not to speak - particularly when I knew you felt the same way." "You knew?" she whispered blankly. "Of course ... since that night at the hut. How could I doubt it when you kissed me as you did ? Francesca..." But as his left arm tightened, and his other hand tilted up her chin, Francesca pushed against his chest. At once he slackened his hold. "What's the matter?" he asked concernedly, as she freed herself and stepped bade. 'I didn't know how you felt? Why didn't you tell me before? The evening I came down to your workshop you behaved as if ... as if kissing me had meant nothing to you."

"Yes, I know," he admitted wryly. "And, believe me, it wasn't easy. But at the time it seemed the best way; I'm sorry, sweet." "Well, it's nice to know you're sorry," she said bleakly. "I thought you enjoyed making me squirm. You certainly gave that impression." He smiled and held out his hands to her. "You must know that isn't true. Don't be a goose. Come here -I want to kiss you again." There was a note in his voice which made her bones melt, but she forced herself to resist his coaxing tone. "Perhaps by tomorrow you'll have changed your mind," she said stiffly, turning away. "Francesca, listen to me." The caressing note had gone, and his tone was crisply authoritative. "I love you, and I. know you love me. It would have been very much easier to have told you weeks ago - and God knows I was tempted often enough. But I knew I had to wait... to give you time. I wanted you to be sure you could be happy here. Now that doesn't matter. When Pilar marries Miklos I shall be free to leave Andorra. But as long as I was tied here, I had to be certain that, if I asked you to marry me, I wouldn't be forcing you to make an impossible choice. I didn't want our future to be based on an unfair sacrifice on your part. Can't you understand that?" She turned slowly bade to face him. "You really mean you would leave Andorra? What about your grandmother?" "I mean it," he said gravely. "As for Grandmother, she would be the last person to stand in our way. She might even decide to come to England herself." "But you love the Valleys. This is your home."

"I love you. A home is wherever two people love each other," "Oh, Nicolas..." Francesca's eyes filled with tears. She went into his arms and clung to him. "Don't cry, my love," he said tenderly. "I'm not ... not really," she said, in a muffled voice. Then she lifted her head from his shoulder, her pale face illumined with happiness. "I don't want to leave the Valleys ... ever," she told him softly. "I love it here, Nicolas. My only reason for going was because I didn't think you cared for me. You must believe that. Living here with you won't be a sacrifice. It will be everything I want. I know it will."

Three' days later, Francesca stood on the balcony of an hotel room in Las Escaldes, and watched the sun sinking behind the western peaks. Below her, the streets of the town were gay with bunting. Soon the fiesta would begin.Tomorrow she and Nicolas were flying to England to see her brother, but tonight, with Miklos and Pilar, they were celebrating their engagement. She was lost in a happy reverie when Nicolas appeared on the adjoining balcony. "A penny for your thoughts, querida." "I was thinking about the day I arrived here. It seems such a long time ago," she said dreamily. Across the dividing balustrade their hands met.

"Not as long as the next three weeks before you really belong to me," said Nicolas, kissing her wrists. He drew her closer and spoke softly, passionately, in Spanish. Francesca did not understand the words, but their meaning was unmistakable. He loved her. And to be loved by Nicolas was all she would ever ask of life.