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to climb above the rim of the world, and the way objects sprang to life on the beach, and became, instead of sinister monsters crouching out there in the gloom, emerald green rocks beyond which those incredible seas curled, and little white sails skimmed the surface of the sea. She had run across the sands in her bare feet and a brief but perfectly modest swimsuit (unlikely to offend even the most decorous-minded upholder of Spanish morals, such as a policeman on early-morning duty), and played about there, on the edge of the waves, with the beach to herself, while her patient still slept, and his mother enjoyed her early morning tea in a bed jacket, and the sanctity of her hotel bedroom.
    Josie’s bedroom was on the floor above. It wasn’t such a large, or such a pleasant bedroom as Mrs. Duveen’s, and the balcony was much more cramped, but she had a wonderful view over the whole of San Fernando. While she hastily separated herself from her swimsuit, and donned something more suitable in which to make her first appearance of the day downstairs on the floor below, she enjoyed that view to the full, and her eyes were usually bright with enthusiasm when she entered her employer’s room.
    He teased her about her energy so early in the morning, and about the way in which her wet hair refused to lie disciplined as he knew she liked it. The honey-gold ends that lay like feathers on her brow under her nurse’s cap were rebellious curls as they dried off in the sunshine.
    Not that she was permitted to wear the nurse’s cap for long, once they arrived in San Fernando. Michael insisted that seeing her wearing it retarded his convalescence, and although his mother was not quite so earnest in her pleas, she did ask Josie to dress normally now that they were out of England.
    “It’s a whim of Michael’s, and we must humor his whims,” she said. But the first time she saw Josie wearing an evening frock—even though it was a very simple evening frock—her eyes widened rather a lot.
    The day the marquis came to lunch Josie wore turquoise-blue linen. A narrow white belt and white sandals accompanied the dress, and because it was rather cool, a chunky white cardigan. Josie hadn’t bothered to make certain her hair was absolutely neat—and, in any case, there was a strong breeze from the sea which ruffled it when she walked in the hotel grounds—and, when the marquis came moving lightly up the steps, she had but just returned from her walk in the grounds. The color in her cheeks was like the rosy afterglow of the sunrise she loved to watch, her slim bare legs and other uncovered portions of her anatomy had already acquired a pale coating of tan, and she looked like any attractive young woman on holiday—free, unfettered, and rather light-hearted.
    The only difference between her and any ordinarily attractive young woman was that her slimness was rather more reed-like than most, and she had an inescapable look of youth; a perfect look of youth.
    The Marquis de Palheiro looked a little surprised when she was introduced.
    “Nurse Winter?” he said. “But you do not look like a nurse, senorita .”
    Josie felt herself blushing. She didn’t quite know why, except that those dark eyes were so plainly puzzled. And they weren’t ordinary dark eyes at all. They were deep, and velvety, and mysterious, and unfathomable, in spite of the fact that they were also surprised. The eyebrows that swept above them were black and strongly marked; the hair grew in a slight, but interesting Marie Stuart peak, and was jet as ebony. He had a pale skin that probably contained a hint of olive when the sun struck full upon it, and from the sombreness and thoughtfulness that overspread his features, he might have been a medieval knight on the eve of going forth to battle.
    Beside him Michael looked tall and athletic and British, and that wasn’t because the marquis was undersized. He was merely a slender, grave, dark man of middle height, who possessed