Master of Comus

Paul looked sombre. 'How could I foresee that she would trip over in the moonlight?'

Argon's eyes narrowed. 'In the moonlight, eh? And what were you doing ...in the moonlight?'

'Taking a stroll before bed,' Paul said curtly.

Argon made a sound of disgust. 'If you had taken her to bed instead of taking her for a stroll this would not have happened! I thought you were supposed to be such a man of the world! Is this how you court a girl? Trip her up like a caveman and maim her?'

'Oh, God help us!' Paul muttered furiously.

'Don't you swear at me, you spawn of Satan,' Argon scolded him.

'I should have done what my instincts told me was best and taken her to Paris,' Paul said bitterly. 'And that's just what I shall do now.'

'Paris,' said Argon doubtfully.

'World-renowned as a honeymoon city,' Paul told him with a sardonic smile.

'I don't like it,' Argon pronounced.

'I'm not asking you to come,' said Paul.

Argon muttered ferociously and gave up the struggle.

Next day, while Clyte packed her clothes, Argon talked to Leonie gently, trying to discover the exact state of her feelings, but failing.

She was determined to conceal from him both her own feelings for Paul and just how badly the first few days of their honeymoon had gone. Argon left her feeling unsatisfied. A further interview with Paul left him no wiser, but he was not altogether unhopeful. They might not know it, but there was a visible tension between them whenever they were together, and on this sign of awareness Argon placed all his hopes for their future.

They flew to Paris next morning. Leonie was feeling rather tired. She had not been able to sleep since returning from the hills; her ankle kept her awake. During the slow progress of the hours she had plenty of time to think about herself and Paul. She had admitted to herself now that she was madly in love with him. She had been preconditioned to fall for him by her schoolhood obsession about him. That charming, romantic image had sunk deep into her subconscious. No wonder that faced with the real man she had been swept off her feet. Paul's attraction towards herself was something which she could not quite decide upon. From his past record, he would have made a pass at any pretty girl into whose company he was exclusively thrown. That he liked her, even desired her, she was fairly sure; there had been nothing fake about the way he made love. But she was just one of a long procession of dazzling girls who had passed through his life. She had never fancied joining a queue, and she did not intend to do so now.

Paul must never suspect that her feelings for him were any deeper than his feelings for her. She had already betrayed herself sufficiently for him to be aware that he attracted her physically.

She would allow him to go on thinking it a mere physical attraction. It would flatter his vanity, of course, but that was better than letting him know she loved him. No doubt countless women had found him physically attractive. Paul appeared to prefer such uncomplicated relationships. Real emotion made one too vulnerable, perhaps, or was it that he

was too self-contained, too downright selfish, to fall love? Whatever the reason, he must not know, o even suspect, that she was in love with him. He would only despise her, or pity, or both, and she could not bear either.

Paul's flat was in a quiet residential street in a fashionable quarter. Elegantly if impersonally furnished, it had three large bedrooms, two reception rooms and a luxuriously fitted kitchen and bathroom.

'Choose which bedroom you like,' Paul told her.

'Which is yours?' she asked.

He looked at her from beneath his lashes. 'Whichever you please.'

She sighed. 'Which one was yours?'

He grinned, indicating a door. Leonie promptly opened the second door along. The room revealed was large, sunny and comfortable.

'I'll have this one,' she told him. He carried her luggage into the room, then suggested she rest before dinner. They had eaten lunch on the plane, the usual cardboard meal, satisfying neither appetite nor senses.

'Will we eat here?' she asked.

'I'll have a meal sent in, he suggested. 'What would you like? Chinese? Indian? Greek?'

'Chinese, I think,' she murmured.

He nodded. 'Fine. Now, try to sleep. You're quite white, you know. The journey was exhausting for you.'

She was glad to fall in with his plans, and managed to sleep for a few hours, until he woke her to eat their evening meal. She had time to wash and change before the delivery man rang the door bell and wheeled in a trolley laden with steaming food. Paul paid him, unloaded the dishes and saw him back to the door with his trolley.