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waking and discovered that it was nearly ten o’clock. And now she heard a slight noise behind her and turned to see Pierre emerging through the little low arched doorway she had made use of herself, and beneath his arm was a check table-cloth, and he carried a handful of cutlery.
    “Monsieur le—Monsieur de Bergerac has asked me to serve petit dejeunerout here in the open,” he said, a little ungraciously Caroline thought—until she also recognised that he looked a little harassed as he shuffled forward to a table that had already been set up near the parapet. She said quickly, sympathising with him:
    “Oh, but I was coming through to the kitchen to attend to myself. There is no need for you to wait on me, Pierre.... I can look after myself.”
    “Monsieur’s orders,” Pierre muttered, and spread the cloth with her assistance, and in spite of a freakish wind. He scratched the top of his head and looked a little vague. “Monsieur says it is too fine a morning to waste indoors. He is from Paris, and in Paris naturally the mornings are not as fine as this! But I am concerned about the poor Madame Giraud....”
    “You have news of her?” Caroline asked quickly. “How —how is she?”
    “Monsieurhas telephoned the hospital, and she is much as she was.”
    “Oh!” And then something struck her as out of keeping, and she added: “Monsieur telephoned the hospital? Then he has already been here... ?”
    “He is here now, mademoiselle!” Even as he spoke, a slim figure came round a projecting round tower that abutted on to the terrace, and he was looking very comfortable and casual in well-tailored slacks and a silk shirt open at the neck. The opening in the neck was filled with a dark blue silk neckerchief decorated with white spots and knotted carelessly about his bronzed throat, and with the morning sunlight pouring over his sleek head and drawing attention to his swarthiness he looked rather gipsyish, although it was at once obvious that he was meticulously shaved.
    “Ah, Mademoiselle Darcy!” he exclaimed, his brown eyes positively lighting up at sight of her. “There is no need to ask whether you slept well!”
    She was wearing strawberry-pink linen, with a white belt and sandals, and her hair was a lovely shining cloak falling almost to her shoulders. The sunlight discovered golden lights amongst the beech-brownness, and her eyelashes were several degrees darker than her hair. Her eyes were such a very deep blue this morning that they made him think of a patch of gentians he had once climbed a mountain to pick before breakfast.
    “Has anyone ever told you,” he said softly, “that you are quite enchanting?”
    Taken by surprise, Caroline blushed vividly. And then she recovered herself.
    “Did you sleep well, Monsieur de Bergerac?” she asked. “And were there many holes in your cottage roof?”
    “The name is Robert,” he replied swiftly—and in such a low voice that Pierre, distributing his cutlery with rather a lot of noise, was scarcely likely to hear. “And there were probably half a dozen holes, but I didn’t notice them.”
    “You didn’t? But, surely --------- ”
    “I slept very deeply, but not dreamlessly. I had very pleasant dreams.”
    His eyes were still on her, and she coloured afresh. She turned away, and he said briskly to the servant:
    “Bring the coffee, Pierre! I have a great many things to do today, and I don’t want to waste any time.”
    Then he strode to the parapet and looked down into the moat. From the moat his eyes wandered to the farther bank, and then to the great trees receding into the distance.
    “And to think that in Paris at this hour I would still be incarcerated in my room,” he said, “and outside the windows there would be a great deal of noise caused by many millions of people all intent on getting through the day somehow or other, and rushing about to very little purpose!”
    “And your bookshop?” she asked. “Who would be attending to your