yes, we’ll have your Ruth Lessing. After all she’ll be pleased to be asked, and she is awfully useful. She looks quite presentable too.’
In that moment Ruth Lessing knew that she hated Rosemary Barton.
Hated her for being rich and beautiful and careless and brainless. No routine hard work in an office for Rosemary—everything handed to her on a golden platter. Love affairs, a doting husband—no need to work or plan—
Hateful, condescending, stuck-up, frivolous beauty …
‘I wish you were dead,’ said Ruth Lessing in a low voice to the silent telephone.
Her own words startled her. They were so unlike her. She had never been passionate, never vehement, never been anything but cool and controlled and efficient.
She said to herself: ‘What’s happening to me?’
She had hated Rosemary Barton that afternoon. She still hated Rosemary Barton on this day a year later.
Some day, perhaps, she would be able to forget Rosemary Barton. But not yet.
She deliberately sent her mind back to those November days.
Sitting looking at the telephone—feeling hatred surge up in her heart …
Giving Rosemary’s message to George in her pleasant controlled voice. Suggesting that she herself should not come so as to leave the number even. George had quickly over-ridden that!
Coming in to report next morning on the sailing of the San Cristobal. George’s relief and gratitude.
‘So he’s sailed on her all right?’
‘Yes. I handed him the money just before the gang-way was taken up.’ She hesitated and said, ‘He waved his hand as the boat backed away from the quay and called out “Love and kisses to George and tell him I’ll drink his health tonight.”’
‘Impudence!’ said George. He asked curiously, ‘What did you think of him, Ruth?’
Her voice was deliberately colourless as she replied:
‘Oh—much as I expected. A weak type.’
And George saw nothing, noticed nothing! She felt like crying out: ‘Why did you send me to see him? Didn’t you know what he might do to me? Don’t you realize that I’m a different person since yesterday? Can’t you see that I’m dangerous? That there’s no knowing what I may do?’
Instead she said in her businesslike voice, ‘About that San Paulo letter—’
She was the competent efficient secretary …
Five more days.
Rosemary’s birthday.
A quiet day at the office—a visit to the hairdresser—the putting on of a new black frock, a touch of make-up skilfully applied. A face looking at her in the glass that was not quite her own face. A pale, determined, bitter face.
It was true what Victor Drake had said. There was no pity in her.
Later, when she was staring across the table at Rosemary Barton’s blue convulsed face, she still felt no pity.
Now, eleven months later, thinking of Rosemary Barton, she felt suddenly afraid …
Anthony Browne was frowning into the middle distance as he thought about Rosemary Barton.
A damned fool he had been ever to get mixed up with her. Though a man might be excused for that! Certainly she was easy upon the eyes. That evening at the Dorchester he’d been able to look at nothing else. As beautiful as a houri—and probably just about as intelligent!
Still he’d fallen for her rather badly. Used up a lot of energy trying to find someone who would introduce him. Quite unforgivable really when he ought to have been attending strictly to business. After all, he wasn’t idling his days away at Claridge’s for pleasure.
But Rosemary Barton was lovely enough in all conscience to excuse any momentary lapse from duty. All very well to kick himself now and wonder why he’d been such a fool. Fortunately there was nothing to regret. Almost as soon as he spoke to her the charm had faded a little. Things resumed their normal proportions. This wasn’t love—nor yet infatuation. A good time was to be had by all, no more, no less.
Well, he’d enjoyed it. And Rosemary had enjoyed it too. She danced like an angel and wherever he took her men turned round to stare at her. It gave a fellow a pleasant feeling. So long as you didn’t expect her to talk. He thanked his stars he wasn’t married to her. Once you got used to all that perfection of face and form where would you be? She couldn’t even listen intelligently. The sort of girl who would expect you to tell her every morning at the breakfast table that you loved her passionately!
Oh, all very well to think those things now.
He’d fallen for her all right, hadn’t he?
Danced attendance on her. Rung her up, taken her out, danced with her, kissed her in the taxi. Been in a fair way to making rather a fool of himself over her until that startling, that incredible day.
He could remember just how she had looked, the piece of chestnut hair that had fallen loose over one ear, the lowered lashes and the gleam of her dark blue eyes through them. The pout of the soft red lips.
‘Anthony Browne. It’s a nice name!’
He said lightly:
‘Eminently well established and respectable. There was a chamberlain to Henry the Eighth called Anthony Browne.’
‘An ancestor, I suppose?’
‘I wouldn’t swear to that.’
‘You’d better not!’
He raised his eyebrows.
‘I’m the Colonial branch.’
‘Not the Italian one?’
‘Oh,’ he laughed. ‘My olive complexion? I had a Spanish mother.’
‘That explains it.’
‘Explains what?’
‘A great deal, Mr Anthony Browne.’
‘You’re very fond of my name.’
‘I said so. It’s a nice name.’
And then quickly like a bolt from the blue: ‘Nicer than Tony Morelli.’
For a moment he could hardly believe his ears! It was incredible! Impossible!
He caught her by the arm. In the harshness of his grip she winced away.
‘Oh, you’re hurting me!’
‘Where did you get hold of that name?’
His voice was harsh, menacing.
She laughed, delighted with the effect she had produced. The incredible little fool!
‘Who told you?’
‘Someone who recognized you.’
‘Who was it? This is serious, Rosemary. I’ve got to know.’
She shot a sideways glance at him.
‘A disreputable cousin of mine, Victor Drake.’
‘I’ve never met anyone of that name.’
‘I imagine he wasn’t using that name at the time you knew him. Saving the family feelings.’
Anthony said slowly. ‘I see. It was—in prison?’