Rose in the Bud by Susan Barrie Page A

paint me?”
    “Certainly not. I shall never paint you.”
    “You—you know where Arlette is to be found?”
    “I have a vague idea.”
    “You—will tell me—?”
    “No,” he answered curtly, “because I know it’s the very last thing she would want me to do.” He walked up to her, and the expression of his eyes—his whole face—had altered so much that he could, she thought, have been a different man from the man who had caught her into his arms only a few minutes ago. The undisguised desire that she had seen in his eyes—unless she had imagined it!—had vanished, and in its place was a coldness and cautiousness that caused her, almost, to recoil from him. Before she realised what she was saying she heard herself level an accusation at him.
    “You were in love with Arlette!”
    Icily he replied, “I have never yet been in love with any woman! I do not intend to fall in love with any woman. I prefer to lead my life without disrupting influences. Women to me, although delightful to look at—and sometimes to paint—are unimportant. I tried to make that clear to you last night, but I don’t think you were inclined to believe me. To-day I had every intention of making it clearer still, but perhaps that is not now necessary. Arlette’s portrait”—he kicked it slightly with his foot—“has done that for me.”
    She turned away, and agitatedly she moved into the centre of the room. Politely she heard him inquiring once more:
    “You will have some coffee? Giovanni is very good at making coffee.”
    But she answered like someone only partially awakened from a dream that had been near reality: “No, thank you, I—I would prefer to be taken back to my hotel, if you don’t mind.”
    He shrugged. His eyes could not have been more indifferent as he agreed immediately.
    “As you wish, of course. I will summon Giovanni.”

 
    CHAPTER VI
    The n ext day Cathleen explored the shops in the Mercana, which is one of the few Venetian landways which can be dignified by the title street. She was not in any particular mood for shopping—not even window-shopping—but she had to do something to kill time, and all at once time was hanging heavily on her hands. She was conscious of feeling very much alone in a world that was not her world, and a little afraid of the loneliness, because it could grow ... unless she decided to cut short her visit and return home to England.
    For the first time, when the maid brought in her breakfast, she did not feel excitement because she was where she was, and already it was a brilliant day outside. No floral tributes arrived to either gladden her eyes or cause her perplexity once she had breakfasted, and when she left her room there was no one waiting for her in the marble-floored entrance and surveying her with dark, appreciative eyes as she stepped out of the lift.
    The shops in the Mercaria were interesting, and she couldn’t resist the temptation to buy one or two small things for herself. She also bought a present to take home to her mother, and some glowing Venetian costume jewellery for a fellow assistant in the little bookshop where she worked. Then she made her way back to St. Mark’s Square, where everyone who visited Venice made their appearance at least once, and usually many more times during the day, and ordered herself a cool drink at one of the pavement cafes.
    It was not the pavement cafe where Edouard had joined her on her first day in Venice. She was careful to avoid that, as if the possibility that she might have to sit at the very same table was something she could not quite face up to. Not while she was still striving fruitlessly and bewilderedly to grow accustomed to the new image of Edouard, that he himself had projected for her benefit in the golden warmth of the previous afternoon.
    She and Edouard had parted at her hotel after they returned from his palazzo with nothing more than conventional murmurs of farewell. Emotion had had her so firmly by the throat