And yet he had played with fire, wanting, as so many men had wanted before him, to have both Cheveron and Violet, salving his conscience by assuring himself over and over again that Violet was not really serious, that her love for him was as light and transitory a thing as his for her. But as the horses neared the Villa des Roses after having left Mistral at the Hotel, Robert was afraid.

He let himself in with a latch key. It was a relief to see that the lights were lit in the drawing room and that Violet had not yet gone to her bedroom. She was sitting at her bureau writing as he entered the room. As she rose, he saw that she had changed from the formal gown she had worn earlier in the evening into a negligée of some soft flowing material. Her only decoration was a bunch of artificial roses which she wore at her breast. Her face was pale as she said quietly,

‘I thought you would come.’

‘Naturally! I owe you an apology.’

His voice was grave and steady and, as he looked at her and looked away again, she saw an expression in his eyes which she had never seen before. And it seemed to Violet that for a moment she could not get her breath. The fears and the anxiety which had been accumulating this past hour or so appeared to unite and in their combination to fashion some terrible weapon which stabbed her now to her very heart.

She knew the truth, knew it without words, without explanation. And she wished only that she might die before she heard it from Robert’s own lips.

But Violet had generations of blue blood in her veins, and this enabled her to say easily and without a tremor in her tones,

‘Won’t you have a drink, Robert? You must have had a trying time since I last saw you.’

‘Thank you!’

There was almost a note of gratitude in his voice as Robert crossed to the wine table and poured himself out a whisky and soda. He was grateful for even a moment’s respite, grateful that Violet seemed calm and unemotional.

He had no idea that, as she watched him cross the room, noting the breadth of his shoulders, the proud carriage of his head and the clear cut handsome features, Violet wanted nothing so much as to be able to cry out her love, to rush towards him with outstretched, clinging arms.

Some primitive savagery within her told her to do just this very thing, to entwine herself about him, to impel him to realise how much she loved him and to arouse his passions by revealing her own. She had made him desire her once, why could she not do so again?