Prelude To Enchantment. Anne Mather

was quite beautiful. The red pantiles of its roof sloped down to a garden bright with flowers which were her aunt's pride and joy. Surrounding the house which was built on the lines of a dormer villa was a verandah, and it was here that they took most of their meals overlooking the blue sweep of the lake and the shadowed purple of the hills beyond. At first, Sancha had thought her aunt would find the isolation too much for her when she was alone all day, but she soon discovered that Elizabeth Tessile had far too many hobbies and pursuits to ever feel really lonely. She enjoyed gardening; she was an expert at making her own clothes; although she had a housekeeper she enjoyed cooking, and as she had plenty of friends popping in for coffee or her particularly English afternoon tea she seldom had a spare moment.

      On Saturday evening her aunt had arranged for them all to attend a dinner party at the home of some friends whose younger members of the family would be company for Sancha, but Sancha declined. She felt she could not spend an evening in her uncle's company, listening to him regaling his colleagues with her aunt's idiosyncrasies knowing full well that he was being unfaithful to her. So she washed her hair instead, and spent the evening writing to her father and stepmother, and to her friends back home in England.

      It was almost a relief when Monday morning came and they could drive back to the city.

      On the journey back to town, Eduardo said: ‘Sancha, is anything wrong? You've seemed particularly constrained this weekend and I'm sure your aunt was concerned about you.'

      Sancha looked up quickly. ‘Oh, surely not,’ she exclaimed quickly. ‘I—I had a headache on Saturday evening, I didn't want to go out.'

      ‘Was that all it was?’ he probed, glancing her way.

      Sancha shrugged. ‘What else could it be?’ she countered.

      He frowned. ‘I don't know,’ he said slowly. ‘But perhaps you have been thinking that I neglect my wife——'

      Sancha's lips parted in protest and he went on:

      ‘Elizabeth's world is complete—without anyone else—without me!'

      ‘Oh, no!’ Sancha stared at him.

      ‘Oh, yes.’ Eduardo's hands changed gear automatically. ‘She has her sewing, her cooking, her gardening! She has her friends! She has whist clubs and bridge clubs and golfing parties! She doesn't need me—except perhaps as a meal ticket.’ He said it without bitterness and Sancha felt a tremendous feeling of responsibility suddenly. ‘It might have been different if we had had children,’ he added. ‘But we were not lucky enough to be so endowed, and so——’ He spread a hand. ‘Does what I'm saying mean anything to you?'

      Sancha bit her lip. ‘I think so.'

      ‘Good. Good, I'm glad.’ Eduardo gestured towards the sea on their left, the sun turning its waters to a pale rose gold. ‘We have so much to be thankful for, don't you think, Sancha?'

      Sancha bent her head but said nothing. Without actually mentioning the subject which was uppermost in both their minds, Eduardo had carefully succeded in explaining to her that sometimes things, and people, were not always what they seemed; that there were faults on both sides, not all of which were recognisable as faults.

      It didn't excuse him; nothing could do that. But she appreciated his confidence and his perception.