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Later, dressed in close-fitting navy trousers and a shirt-necked white blouse she surveyed her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. She looked cool and slim and businesslike, the dark hair in its chignon accentuating the air of maturity she was endeavouring to assume. But in spite of all her efforts, the upward tilt of her lovely eyes and the generous sweep of her rather sensuous mouth betrayed her youth and uncertainty. With a feeling of helplessness, she went down to the dining-room.
After breakfast, she drove into the centre of Arles. It was not a large place, but it was a market town and in consequence its mornings were filled with activity. She found herself tempted by the delicious array of sea-foods available on the stalls, but resisted the inducements of the stallholders to buy. Instead, she parked the Citröen and walked round the shops, filling in time until lunch.
She had decided to telephone the Mas St. Salvador at lunchtime in the hope that she would be able to speak to Manoel, who perhaps came home for lunch. She had no desire to speak to his mother, or his father either for that matter. This concerned herself and Manoel, and Manoel alone.
After posting a card to Clarry assuring her of her safe arrival, she found herself becoming increasingly agitated as the morning wore on. It was a
She refused to speculate upon his reactions to her arrival. No doubt he was married to Yvo
She drove back to the hotel soon after twelve and entered the reception hall almost reluctantly. She had noticed a public telephone booth in the hall for use by the patrons and she walked across to it determinedly. She wanted to get the call over before her courage wavered.
Although she had written the number down she could remember most of it without difficulty and with trembling fingers she lifted the receiver and asked the operator for her call. By the time she heard the ringing tone at the other end of the line her palms were moist with sweat and tiny beads of perspiration were standing on her brow.
The receiver was lifted at last and a woman’s voice said: ‘Oui? Mas St. Salvador. Qui est-ce?’
Dio
‘Non, c’est Jea
‘Non, non!’ Dio
Jea
Dio
Emerging from the phone booth she found the hotel manager in the hall and he regarded her anxiously, noting her pale cheeks and over-bright eyes.
‘Is something wrong, mademoiselle?’ he queried solicitously.
Dio
‘Beautiful,’ he echoed, nodding, and she fled up the stairs to her room.
As she changed for lunch into a cotton shift in a rather attractive shade of lemon which Clarry had made for her Dio
She descended to the dining-room with a distinctly hollow feeling in her stomach that had little to do with food.
She ate little, even though the fish soup was delicious, and refused anything more than some fresh fruit afterwards. She enjoyed the coffee; it was invigoratingly strong, and as she sipped it she sought about in her mind for a reason to drive out to the manade itself.
Leaving the restaurant, she crossed the reception area to the wide entrance to the hotel, looking out on the shaded square with thoughtful eyes. There were not many guests staying in the hotel. It was early yet for tourists in Arles. They would come later, in May and June, when the festivals began, when the gypsies gathered for their own particular celebrations …
Dio
With tightly clenched fists she turned back into the hotel. It was no use. She had to go through with it, however painful and ugly it might be. For Jonathan’s sake.
She spent the afternoon in the hotel, much to the manager’s amazement. He had obviously written her down as a tourist, and that she should not be out sampling the tourist’s places of interest was clearly an enigma to him. Several times she caught him watching her from the doorway of the lounge and she deliberately pretended not to notice so that she would not embarrass him.
In the late afternoon, when the shadows in the square were lengthening, she left the lounge and made her way to the telephone booth again. Her knees trembled slightly, and she had difficulty in co-ordinating her movements. But she reached the booth at last and lifted the receiver.
A female voice answered the call again, and Dio
‘Excusez moi,’ she said, hoping her accent would not sound too English, ‘mais je veux parler avec Monsieur Manoel St. Salvador.’
‘Manoel?’ The girl sounded surprised. ‘Qui est là?’
Dio
‘C’est une amie de Monsieur St. Salvador,’ she prevaricated.
The girl uttered an exclamation. ‘Mais êtes-vous anglaise?’
Dio
‘Ce n’est pas important,’ she replied, and for the second time she rang off, despising herself for her cowardice.
Leaving the booth, she went upstairs to her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror of the dressing-table. Her eyes were troubled now, their green depths haunted by the anxiety she was suffering. What was she going to do?