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her father sold? Kitchen hardware. Saucepans
and such-like." He laughed. "I told her she
didn't love me, and she burst into tears and said
I didn't love her! Impasse. After that, I decided
marriage was not for me. It's only when . . ."
He looked down at the sleeping child and gently
touched the freckles on her nose. "It's only where
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children are concerned that sometimes I envy
other men."
"I think any woman who really loved you . . ."
Lauren began.
Roland Harvey looked at her with what, she
recognized with a shock, was pity. "You said
that before, Miss Roubin. I'm afraid you're too
young to know what love is. You're little more
than a child."
"I'm twenty-one," she said indignantly, tossing
her head so that her ash-blonde curly hair swung
with the movement.
He looked surprised. "Are you really? I
thought you were about seventeen."
Was he teasing her? Did she really look only
seventeen? , Looking at him, she found herself
believing him. Why, to him she was a child. A
child to be treated kindly in the way he treated
Deborah.
But she was not a child. Nor did she want to
be looked on as one or treated as one. She was
a woman./
But not to Roland Harvey. He had already for-
gotten her, and was lopking at his watch worried-
ly. "If Deborah wants to swim, I'll have to wake
her up," he said. "I've got an appointment."
Tenderly and gently he awakened the child,
giving her time to wake up properly, then he went
swimming, into clear calm water with Deborah
on his back, clutching his dark red hair, for once
ruffled, her face ecstatic. He did not ask Lauren
to join them, so she remained where she was,
watching them, her face thoughtful and a little
sad.
Surely she looked more than seventeen? Surely
any man with eyes to see could tell that she was
a woman, old enough and eager to be loved . . .
Suddenly she caught her breath. Watching the
child and the big, handsome man romping like
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tortoises in the shallow water, she knew some-
thing , . .
And yet it was so crazy, so impossible, so
incredible that she knew she must forget it at
once.
She must not think about it again. Must wipe .
it out of her mind. It couldn't be, mustn't be
true . . .
Telling herself this almost hysterically, she
still knew the truth. This was something she
could never forget.
She was in love with Roland Harvey.
How long she lay there on the sands, still and
scared, she did not know. This was something too
big for her to handle. She couldn't be so foolish.
It was asking for trouble, for pain, sorrow, heart-
ache. Then something made her look at her
watch and she leapt to her feet in dismay. She
had less than five minutes in which to get back
to the hotel, change into a frock and join Nick.
She turned to run, giving one last look towards
the lagoon, and saw that Roland Harvey was on
his feet, staring after her, and that Deborah was
jumping up and down by his side, obviously tell-
ing him something. Was she saying that Miss
Woubin was like Cindewella, that she had to go
at three o'clock? Would that make him wonder?
Make him suspicious? Yet why should it? He
probably forgot all about her the instant he left
her side. To Roland, she was just an unsophis-
ticated, rather silly young girl. That was how he
saw her. And that was something she must re-
member ...
She was running towards the hotel when Mrs.
Lindstrom stopped her. As usual immaculate,
she wore a blue sun-frock.
"Miss Roubin," she said sharply, "what have
you done with Deborah?"
Somehow Lauren managed to move past her,
saying: "Sorry, but I'm late, Mrs. Lindstrom.
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Deborah is quite all right. I left her with Mr.
Harvey."
"You left her with ?" Mrs. Lindstrom began,
but Lauren did not wait to hear any more. There
was a strange look on Mrs. Lindstrom's face, but
Lauren could only think of one thing that Nick
would be waiting for her and she didn't want to
make him angry. And whatever happened, she
knew, she must never let Nick guess her secret.
If he knew that she was in love with Roland Har-
vey or thought she was, as he would surely say
he would do his best to make it impossible for
her to see Roland Harvey again.
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CHAPTER FOUR
IT WAS to be a whole week before Lauren saw
Deborah again. At first it did not worry her very
much, for the days slipped by so easily that she
was hardly aware of the passage of5 time. Each
day she spent on the hot white sands,and she had
discovered a discreet pathway that wound in and
out through many flowering bushes and which
allowed her to reach the sands without using the
wide road where most people walked. She ac-
quired the habit of slipping out of the hptel very
early every morning and going along this path-
way to the part of the beach she preferred, by the
solitary palm tree and the little pool. As very
few hotel guests walked as far along the' sands
as that, she had it almost entirely to herself.
Lying there contentedly in the sunshine, writ-
ing letters or just dreaming, she did not really
miss Deborah. Sometimes when she thought of
the child, she wondered where she was, but it did
not actively worry her until the seventh day. She
kept telling herself that it was really all for the
best. If Deborah came to see her, there was
every chance that Roland Harvey would too, and
although one half of her longed to see him, the
other, saner, more sensible half agreed that it
was best for him to stay away.
Her love was doomed to be only a source of
pain to her. All the dreaming in the world could
not make her think otherwise. Even if Roland
Harvey saw her as a woman a woman ready
for love there would still be no hope for her. He
was determined not to marry. 'Hadn't he told her
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so? And despite Deborah's wide-eyed certainty
that he was to be her new father, Lauren thought
it extremely doubtful. Somehow she could not
see him as the lovely Leila Lindstrom's husband.
Somehow she could not see him as anyone's hus-
band.
The days seemed to fly by living to a routine
as she did ensured that. There were fresh dances
to be practised every afternoon, then the hair-
dresser to visit as he colour-rinsed and twisted
her hair into the strangest of colours and shapes,
and then came the long time she took to bath,
dress and make up in accordance with Nick's in-
structions. Next would come the ever-increasing
thrill of waiting for the drums to roll, and then
it was time to give Nick her hand and let him lead
her out on to the floor, and everything else would
be forgotten in the excitement and wonder of the
dance and the ever-satisfying roar of applause.
She had grown used to mingling with the
guests afterwards, dancing with them, laughing
with them, refusing the champagne that was al-
ways offered to her, bearing their teasing good-
humouredly when she insisted on having tomato
juice.
She loved her beautiful gowns, each one so
different the gracious white satin gown, design-
ed like a lily; the pale lilac gown that was just a
froth of organdie with an ostrich feather bodice;
the dramatic scarlet sheath with the hidden full-
ness of skirt; the cream satin crinoline with the
great loops of scarlet roses on the skirt. Each
gown was designed for a special series of dances,
for a theme; each evening there was a different
motif sometimes happiness, sometimes tragedy.
It was more than mere dancing; Nick was an
artist. It was fun to learn the different dances
to practise the verve and abandon of the Spanish
dance, the subtle nuances of the Japanese, the
gaiety of the Irish, the formality and precision
60
of the Scottish, and then there was always the
sheer beauty of straight ballroom dancing. She
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