“You women and your high heels! You should remember that pride nearly always goes before a fall!”
And then his voice altered as the subtle delicacy of her perfume stole up to him, and she felt so absurdly small and insubstantial in his arms that he couldn’t resist the temptation to draw her closer. His stick clattered to the pavement as he used both arms to hold her fast.
“Josie,” he whispered, as if in surprise, “you’re sweet—terribly sweet!”
And then he kissed her. It was an experimental kiss at first, and then it developed into something that took their united breaths away for the few long-drawn-out seconds that it lasted, and Josie’s heart was hammering like a wild thing beating against the bars of a cage when at last she determinedly drew herself away and stooped to recover his stick.
“I’m sorry about that, Josie,” he said, in a faintly bemused voice, as she handed him back his stick. “You’ll have to put it down to the extraordinary effect of Spanish moonlight.”
But there was little or no moonlight in the ilex-lined path they had been following. Only a pattern like silver lace at their feet, caused by the few bright gleams that found their way through the dark branches of the trees.
CHAPTER V
The Marquis de Palheiro ’ s summer villa occupied a commanding position on the wildly beautiful Costa Brava coast. A ridge of pines rose behind it, and in front there was an almost uninterrupted view of the sea. The road to it climbed nearly all the way from San Fernando, with glimpses of the Pyrenees, with snow upon their summits, rising up away to the north, afforded every now and again by the sudden twists and turns of the road. Nearer at hand were strangely shaped mountains of Montserrat, etched sharply against the deep blue of the sky, and a little forbidding in such a smiling landscape.
It was a perfect morning when Mrs. Duveen and her son, as well as Josie, were driven in superb comfort by the marquis’s chauffeur in the marquis’s car to the white villa where their host awaited them. The miles of maize, and the lavender fields, had been cut and denuded weeks before, but there was still color enough on every hand. The road proceeded like a snake, flashing through Catalan villages and terraced orchards, overhanging quaint harbors and splintered red rocks about which the peacock-blue sea swirled and eddied, filling the many crannies of the golden rimmed coast. It twisted upwards through vineyards, and then plunged down to meet the sea again, only to climb once more towards a fir plantation. The light was strange and clear and golden, the vegetation exotic and extraordinarily lush considering the lateness of the season. There were thorny shapes that Josie later discovered were torch-thistles, slender agave flowers, a profusion of trees that she came to know as mastic-trees, and clumps of prickly pear.
The air seemed full of the sharp scent of pine, and the marquis’s villa was actually overhung by the umbrella shapes, often leaning a little drunkenly from their rock crannies.
The villa itself stood well back from the road, and ornamental wrought-iron gates guarded the approach to it. Once the car flashed between these gates, however, and entered a sheltered drive, it was barely a minute before they emerged on to a broad open sweep before the house.
Looking up at it from her seat beside the chauffeur Josie thought it looked more like a small mansion than a summer villa—a sea-side villa, as she supposed it was looked upon by its owner. Although decorated with green-painted grilles and balconies and shutters fastened back against the severe white walls, it was extremely dignified.
A magnificent climbing rose bloomed in blood-red beauty above the stout, iron-studded front door, and a terrace ran the entire length of the front of the house. Where the terrace ended she could see long pergolas of roses, and on the other side of an arch cut in a whitewashed wall with a pantiled roof
And then his voice altered as the subtle delicacy of her perfume stole up to him, and she felt so absurdly small and insubstantial in his arms that he couldn’t resist the temptation to draw her closer. His stick clattered to the pavement as he used both arms to hold her fast.
“Josie,” he whispered, as if in surprise, “you’re sweet—terribly sweet!”
And then he kissed her. It was an experimental kiss at first, and then it developed into something that took their united breaths away for the few long-drawn-out seconds that it lasted, and Josie’s heart was hammering like a wild thing beating against the bars of a cage when at last she determinedly drew herself away and stooped to recover his stick.
“I’m sorry about that, Josie,” he said, in a faintly bemused voice, as she handed him back his stick. “You’ll have to put it down to the extraordinary effect of Spanish moonlight.”
But there was little or no moonlight in the ilex-lined path they had been following. Only a pattern like silver lace at their feet, caused by the few bright gleams that found their way through the dark branches of the trees.
CHAPTER V
The Marquis de Palheiro ’ s summer villa occupied a commanding position on the wildly beautiful Costa Brava coast. A ridge of pines rose behind it, and in front there was an almost uninterrupted view of the sea. The road to it climbed nearly all the way from San Fernando, with glimpses of the Pyrenees, with snow upon their summits, rising up away to the north, afforded every now and again by the sudden twists and turns of the road. Nearer at hand were strangely shaped mountains of Montserrat, etched sharply against the deep blue of the sky, and a little forbidding in such a smiling landscape.
It was a perfect morning when Mrs. Duveen and her son, as well as Josie, were driven in superb comfort by the marquis’s chauffeur in the marquis’s car to the white villa where their host awaited them. The miles of maize, and the lavender fields, had been cut and denuded weeks before, but there was still color enough on every hand. The road proceeded like a snake, flashing through Catalan villages and terraced orchards, overhanging quaint harbors and splintered red rocks about which the peacock-blue sea swirled and eddied, filling the many crannies of the golden rimmed coast. It twisted upwards through vineyards, and then plunged down to meet the sea again, only to climb once more towards a fir plantation. The light was strange and clear and golden, the vegetation exotic and extraordinarily lush considering the lateness of the season. There were thorny shapes that Josie later discovered were torch-thistles, slender agave flowers, a profusion of trees that she came to know as mastic-trees, and clumps of prickly pear.
The air seemed full of the sharp scent of pine, and the marquis’s villa was actually overhung by the umbrella shapes, often leaning a little drunkenly from their rock crannies.
The villa itself stood well back from the road, and ornamental wrought-iron gates guarded the approach to it. Once the car flashed between these gates, however, and entered a sheltered drive, it was barely a minute before they emerged on to a broad open sweep before the house.
Looking up at it from her seat beside the chauffeur Josie thought it looked more like a small mansion than a summer villa—a sea-side villa, as she supposed it was looked upon by its owner. Although decorated with green-painted grilles and balconies and shutters fastened back against the severe white walls, it was extremely dignified.
A magnificent climbing rose bloomed in blood-red beauty above the stout, iron-studded front door, and a terrace ran the entire length of the front of the house. Where the terrace ended she could see long pergolas of roses, and on the other side of an arch cut in a whitewashed wall with a pantiled roof
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