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returns to England it will be back to buses and walking. Forget that at your peril.
    “You’re rather quiet.”
    “Am I?” She laughed, what was the harm in enjoying this kind of pampering for once? “I’m reminding myself not to become used to such luxury.”
    “I can’t ever recall meeting anyone as sweet and honest as you, Daphne.”
    “Honesty is important to me.”
    “What about love?”
    “Without honesty, there couldn’t be sincere love. Oh, we are silly talking like this.” She touched his arm, a feather light caress.
    “What’s your favorite city, Paul?”
    “Paris, I think.”
    “I thought you might have said London.”
    “I like London, but there’s something special about Paris. Sophisticated, yet, well romantic I suppose.”
    “Do you go there often?”
    “Every couple of months or so.”
    She hated herself for wondering whether he had a pretty little French girl tucked away in some chateau over there.
    Within a short time they arrived in Hawthorn. The double storey mansion at the end of a tree-lined street appeared to be built of painted white brick. She tried to contain her awe as they walked up several marble steps to an impressive portico entrance.
    A uniformed manservant ushered them indoors. A young maid took her wrap, then Paul slipped his arm through hers and they entered the ballroom. Chandeliers, Louis XV settees and chairs, Daphne’s legs shook. The dress she had thought beautiful looked cheap compared with the Parisian creations here.
    “Paul, darling. How good of you to come,” gushed their hostess.
    “Pleased to be here, Angie. You haven’t met Daphne yet. Angie Fairbrother, Daphne Clarke.”
    “Good evening, Mrs. Fairbrother.” Daphne immediately noticed an enormous diamond ring on the woman’s left hand.
    “Angie, please, darling. I’m between husbands at the moment. Now tell me, Paul. Where’s Kitty?”
    “She’ll be along in a while, I should imagine.”
    “You naughty boy.” Angie tapped his cheek with a long, red nailed finger. “She’ll sulk for weeks now because you weren’t her escort.” She glanced at Daphne and sniffed slightly.
    “Those people over there are waving to you,” Daphne said.
    “So they are.” He raised his hand in acknowledgement. When the orchestra started up, Paul swept her into his arms and she forgot everything except the wonderful feeling of being held against his hard, warm body.
    The party seemed to be awash with Champagne. There were biscuits covered in caviar, wafer thin shrimp sandwiches and little creams of foie gras. It must have cost a fortune. Sinful when so many working men had lost their jobs due to the depression, and their families were on the verge of starvation because of the pittance the government paid them in sustenance.
    The ‘susso’ was not enough to live on, it kept families one step ahead of destitution, and the people here spent money with reckless abandonment. The voices around her sounded overloud, greatly affected, and the gushiness of several women over Paul became nauseating.
    Daphne recognized Kitty the moment she swept into the room, dressed in a black velvet gown. The high back was countered by the low V showing a large portion of her creamy white breasts. The skirt was bunched up into a bustle effect at the back. She looked sensational. Her pictures in the society pages didn’t do her justice.
    “How are you? Daisy, isn’t it?” Kitty removed a long cigarette holder from her mouth, and languidly blew a cloud of smoke into Daphne’s face. “Darling, I hope you aren’t taking too seriously anything this Casanova tells you.”
    Paul’s eyes hardened as he drawled, “I’m not all that bad am I, darling?”
    He sounded as insincere as ninety-five percent of the other people here Daphne thought with a pang. The music started to become over loud, people more boisterous and, like a trapped animal, she searched for a place to flee. Paul stood chatting with Kitty and a group of other people.