The Vision of Desire
He threw her a quick, enigmatic smile.
"I've an obliging disposition. Haven't you found that out yet?"
Ann laughed.
"It's becoming quite noticeable," she retorted. "Tony, you nearly broke the
bank to-night, I should think."
"Broke the bank! At five francs a time!" He kicked a pebble viciously into
the roadway. "It was confounded bad luck to get a run like that with such a
rotten limit. With an equal run at Monte I'd have made a fortune. Oh,
damn!"
They walked on in silence for a while. There was no moon. The lake lay dark
and mysterious, pricked here and there with the swaying orange light of a
fishing-boat. High up, like a ring of planets brooding above the town, the
great arc of the Caux Palace lights blazed through the starlit dusk.
Tony reverted to the evening's play.
"You didn't do badly, either," he said, challengingly. "You weren't bored
to-night, were you?"
An odd little smile crossed her face.
"No, I wasn't bored," she answered quietly.
CHAPTER VII
A QUESTION OF ILLUSIONS
An air of suppressed excitement prevailed over Montricheux. It was the day
when the pretty lakeside town celebrated the Fête des Narcisses, and from
the smallest street urchin, grabbing a bunch of narcissi in his grubby
little hand and trying to induce the good-natured foreigner to purchase his
wares, to the usually stolid _hôteliers_, vying with each other as to which
of their caravanserais should blaze out into the most arresting scheme of
decoration on the great occasion, the whole population was aquiver with an
almost child-like sense of anticipation and delight. There was to be a
procession of decorated cars and carriages, a battle of flowers, and
attractions innumerable during the course of the day, followed in the
evening by a Venetian fête on the waters of the bay.
Tony looked in at Villa Mon Rêve shortly after breakfast.
"Taking any part in the proceedings?" he inquired conversationally.
Ann shook her head.
"We've had the car decorated in honour of the occasion," she replied. "But
we're not competing for any prize. I expect we shall just drive about the
town."
"Same here. Tour round, chucking flowers at unsuspecting people. It's a
bore that you and I can't play about together," moodily. "But we've got a
female relative of Uncle Philip's on our hands--a wealthy old cousin, name
of 'Great Expectations,'" with a cheerful grin. "So I've got to trot her
round and do the devoted nephew stunt all day."
"I hope you'll do it nicely"--smiling.
"I shall hear of it from Uncle Philip if I don't!"--grimly. "But you
needn't worry. I got all my best manners down from the top shelf this
morning and gave 'em a brush up."
"Good boy." Ann nodded approval.
"And by way of reward," insinuated Tony, "you'll come to the dance at the
Gloria this evening, won't you? I could come over and fetch you about ten
o'clock, after this precious Venetian fête is over. I'd have liked to go on
the lake, but Uncle Philip has ordained that we are to watch the
proceedings from our balcony at the Gloria. After that, I should think
'cousin' will be sufficiently exhausted to contemplate the idea of retiring
to bed like a Christian woman. She's seventy-nine."
"People fox-trot at seventy-nine nowadays," suggested Ann mischievously.
"Perhaps your duties won't end at ten." Then, seeing his face fall: "But
I'll come to the dance, if Lady Susan doesn't happen to want me this
evening."
At that moment Lady Susan herself came into the room. She still limped a
little, leaning on an ebony stick with a gold knob.
"Who's taking my name in vain?" she asked, as she shook hands with Tony.
"I'm sure to want you," addressing Ann, "but I suppose I shall have to go
without you if Tony wants you too."
Ann explained about the dance, adding: "But of course I shan't think of it
if you'd rather I stayed at home."
"Of course you _will_ think of it," contradicted Lady Susan with vigour.
"I'd go myself if it wasn't for this wretched ankle of mine, and
then"--bubbling over--"Philip and I could tread a stately measure together.
I can just see him doing it!" she added wickedly.
"That's fixed, then," said Tony. "So long. I'll call for you about ten
o'clock, Ann."
After lunch Lady Susan and Ann drove off in the two-seater, Ann at the
wheel and a great basket of flowers for ammunition purposes on the floor of
the car. The streets were thronged with people, and from almost every
window depended flags and coloured streamers, flapping gaily in the breeze.
Cars hastened hither and thither; some, elaborately decorated, were
evidently intended to compete for the prizes offered, whilst others, like
that of Lady Susan, were only sufficiently embellished to permit of their
taking part in the Battle of Flowers, in accordance with the official
regulations issued for the occasion.
The judging of the cars took place in the wide Place du Marché, and
immediately afterwards the firing-off of a small self-important cannon
signalised the commencement of the battle. Carriages and cars passed and
repassed, flowers were tossed from one to the other, whilst showers of
confetti and coloured paper _serpentins_ flew through the air.
Lady Susan apparently enjoyed the fun as much as any one, and was perfectly
charmed when, as the two-seater glided past Sir Philip's Rolls-Royce, he
flung an exquisite spray of crimson roses into her lap, with a sprig of
rosemary nestling amongst them.
"Romantic old dear!" she commented, laughing, as she retaliated with a tiny
nosegay which Sir Philip caught neatly as it went sailing over his head.
But her eyes were very soft as she turned to Ann. "The beauty of not being
married is that you never lose your illusions. Always remember that, Ann,
when you feel like commiserating the old maids of your acquaintance."
"And are you bound to lose them if you marry?" queried Ann, steering her
way deftly through the traffic and bringing the two-seater to a standstill
as the stream of cars temporarily checked.
"No. But you run an excellent chance of it. Do you suppose if I'd married
Sir Philip thirty years ago he'd be pelting me with roses now?"--enjoyably.
"Of course not. It'd be the tradesmen's books, most likely!"
"You wicked cynic!"
Lady Susan laid her hand impulsively on the girl's arm.
"Not really, Ann," she said hastily. "I know that if only a man remembers
the roses, marriage may mean heaven on earth. But they so often forget"--a
little wistfully. "And a woman does so _hate_ to be taken for
granted--regarded as a kind of standing dish!"
Came a regular barrage of flowers from a car to their right, and Ann,
recognising a party of friends, returned them measure for measure.
Meanwhile, unnoticed by her, the third-prize car had drawn alongside,
intervening between herself and the car-load of friends. She had already
raised her arm to speed a final rosebud on its way, and then, with a sudden
shock of surprise, she recognised in one of the occupants of the prize car
the Englishman with the grey eyes. He was sitting beside an extremely
pretty woman and looking somewhat haughty and ill-tempered, as though the
whole business of the fête bored him excessively.
She tried to check her action, but it was too late. The rosebud flew from
her fingers, and the Englishman's head being directly in her line of fire,
the bud, sped with hearty goodwill, hit him straight on the nose. Ann
smiled--she couldn't help it. But there came no response, his expression
remaining unaltered. He regarded her unsmilingly, without a hint of
recognition in his eyes.
A hot flush stained her cheeks.
"Boor!" was her mental comment, and she let in the clutch viciously as the
car in front of her moved forward.
Lady Susan laughed outright.
"I wonder who that handsome, sulky-looking individual is?" she said gaily.
"He fairly froze you, Ann. I imagine he thinks you did it on purpose."
Ann's face burned more hotly. That was precisely the conclusion she had
arrived at herself, and the idea filled her with helpless rage.
"He struck me as quite an unusual combination of good looks and bad
temper," pursued Lady Susan. "Evidently he doesn't appreciate being pelted
with roses."
A sudden gurgle of laughter broke from Ann.
"It was rather a hard little bud," she said vindictively. "I hope it hurt
him."
Lady Susan threw a swift glance at her.
"Do you know him? Have you met him before?" she asked.
"He was down at the Kursaal the other night--the night Tony and I had such
good luck. I dropped my bag and he picked it up for me. That's all."
Ann spoke rather shortly, and for some time afterwards appeared to be
completely absorbed in manoeuvring the two-seater through the streets. They
did not encounter the Englishman's car again, and eventually, after making
a final circuit of the town, they returned to Mon Rêve.
In the evening Lady Susan complained of fatigue.
"I've not quite got over that fall of mine yet," she acknowledged ruefully,
when Ann suggested that perhaps she had been out driving too long in the
hot sun. "Elderly ladies should refrain from tumbling about; it shakes them
up too much. I should immensely like to go to bed, if you don't mind
watching the Venetian fête in solitary splendour. Do you?"
She emitted a sigh of satisfaction when Ann assured her that she did not.
"Then I shall just disappear to bed with a novel. It will entertain me far
more than gazing at a lot of illuminated boats paddling about the lake."
"I think I shall take our boat out, then," said Ann. "I'd rather like to
see it all at close quarters. It's all new to me, you know."
Lady Susan nodded. At different times they had spent a good many enjoyable
hours together, pulling about on the lake, and she had complete confidence
in Ann's ability to manage a rowing-boat.
"Very well. Only don't forget Tony is coming to take you to the dance at
ten and tire yourself out."
Ann laughed and shook her head, and when Lady Susan had departed to bed she
threw a knitted coat over her evening frock and made her way out into the
garden. It was a long, rambling garden, sheltered from the road by a high
wall and, at its farthest end, skirting the lake itself. Here a small
wooden landing-stage had been erected, and moored against it lay a light
rowing-boat--the _Rêve_. With practised hands Ann untied the painter,
affixed a light to the bows of the boat, dropped the sculls into the
rowlocks, and rowed quietly out across the placid water.
One by one illuminated boats came creeping round the arm of the bay, each
adding a fresh cluster of twinkling lights to the bobbing multitude already
gathered there. Like a cloud of fireflies they seemed to dart and circle
and hover above the dusky surface of the lake. Motor-launches flashed here
and there, in and out amongst the slower craft, while from one of the lake
steamers, decks and rigging outlined in quivering points of light, came the
inspiriting strains of a band. Snatches of song drifted across the water,
and now and again the melancholy long-drawn hoot of a syren pierced the
air.
Gradually Ann drew abreast of the assembled craft, and leisurely pulled her
way in and out amongst them. The decorated boats delighted her, some agleam
with Chinese lanterns--giant glow-worms floating on the water, others with
phantom sails of frail asparagus fern lit by swaying lights like dancing
will-o'-the-wisps--dream-boats gliding slowly over a dreaming lake.
Presently she rested on her oars, watching the scene with the eager, vivid
interest which was characteristic of her. So absorbed was she that she
failed to notice that her own small skiff was getting rather dangerously
hemmed in. To her right lay a biggish sailing vessel, blocking the view on
that side, behind her a small fry of miscellaneous craft, packed together