Only the Count was not there. He had gone for ever.
"Thank heaven I am safe from them," she thought.
That night she dreamed that she was married to Osbert. The children were with them and they all built a rockery in the cottage garden under the orange sky of a frosty autumn sunset. Afterwards they went indoors to tea, when she was permeated with a quiet domestic happiness, comforting as the radiance of a steady coal fire.
The glow lasted even after she had awakened the next morning.
"I wonder what will happen today," she thought. "No, I know. Nothing."
That morning the Count asked her to marry him.
CHAPTER SIX. FLOWERS FOR THE BRIDE
At first Georgia could not believe her good fortune. A wish had come true, contrary to the probabilities and against the force of circumstance. Yet, instead of accepting the Count's offer, she found herself putting obstacles in the way.
"I could never be a Countess," she declared. "I could never live up to the obligations. Remember, I am nobody."
"I am the nobody," the Count assured her proudly. "I bear an old title which no one sees in print, outside the society columns of the press of my country. But the name 'Georgia Yeo' is known to millions all over the globe."
"That's different," murmured Georgia, unable to explain a position which was clear to her normal vision.
She knew herself to be one of the host of social nonentities whose names are familiar to thousands, by virtue of their craft of authorship. Twice yearly they heave themselves up out of the ooze of their native Obscurity, on the flood-tide of the publishing season, to make a vigorous, or feeble, splash, and then settle back into their original privacy.
Her own output was too steady for her case to be typical since her books were absent from the advertisement pages for only short periods; yet she had contrived to secure almost complete isolation. She had never joined a literary club, never been present at any function, never been photographed or interviewed.
"You don't understand," she persisted in a panic. "I know no one. I go, nowhere. I should let you down. Besides you are making a mistake about me. You meet fashionable women-of-the-world. What can you see in me?"
"What did your husband see in you?" asked the Count.
"He watched me grow up. He and my father were at school together. He made up his mind to marry me when I was fourteen."
"How nice of him. How nice for you. Since then there must have been other men?"
"Only one. Osbert. Harvey Torch's brother."
"Good for him. Torch is a charming little chap. Is Osbert like him?"
"No. He is bigger than you."
To her bewilderment Georgia realised that she was definitely glad to snub the Count for his smiling assurance. Even while she felt the pull of his attraction, she was conscious of equally strong antipathy.
"There are my children," she went on. "They will always be my first consideration. They have decided tastes and they may not take to you."
"They will. But that is not in my favour. It is a fact that children and animals invariably attach themselves to the biggest scoundrels. See how honest I am with you. I will not win you under false colours."
Georgia twisted her wedding-ring desperately. She realised that she must keep her brain clear and not make a false decision. Although she could withdraw up to the minute before her marriage, instinct warned her of the tremendous pressure which would be exerted by the culminating power of the Count's personality.
Today she was herself, her will unatrophied, her judgment unclouded. Tomorrow she might be some one's puppet, a marionette, moved by unseen strings.
"You like me very much," said the Count confidently. "But you are also afraid of me."
"Not of you," Georgia objected. "But naturally I am afraid of making a mistake."
"That is easy to make. If you refuse me I can do nothing more about it. But when you are walking along that sad beach in the winter twilight won't you regret the bright lights of cities?...Or perhaps you will go to the cinema. On the long bus ride back through the dark country won't you remind yourself, 'I could have been glamorous as Marlene Dietrich.'...Or you meet some tiresome woman who brags of a cheap conquest. At last you will be bound to tell her, 'I could have been a Countess.' But will she believe you?"
"Don't," implored Georgia. "How do you know it all?"
He was presenting the future with such uncanny foreknowledge that every word found its target in her imagination. She could see the strips of brown ribbon seaweed on the shingle, hear the sad mewing of gulls, smell the wet waterproofs in the crowded bus.
"You know you missed me," went on the Count. "I saw your sad little face when you entered the lounge yesterday."
The psychological moment when she made her decision passed unrecognised by Georgia. With his last words the Count had won his victory. They conjured up a prospect of intolerable boredom. Drab Brussels, dead Bruges. A dull level ahead, like mud-flats left uncovered by the ebbing tide. Limping minutes, paralysed hours, and the ache of unavailing regret.
"You must be mad," she told him "And I am mad to listen to you. We are strangers."
"But what have you to lose? I have proved myself no fortune-hunter."
"I know. Let me think."
She looked around her as though seeking some guide to her destiny. They were sitting in the park, opposite to the royal palace. It was a hot blue windy day when the rusty chestnut leaves shook fans of shadow across their faces and the blown spray from the large circular fountain drifted in the air like smoke.
But the sign she sought was not there. The bandstand amid the trees was deserted, the seats empty. The winding paths amid the grove awaited the lovers' evening hour. Only some children played around a circle of stone shapes who stared from blind eyes.
The Count fixed his eyes on her troubled face.
"I am asking you to marry me today," he said. "I shall not ask you tomorrow. I want my answer now."
"Yes," she replied.
"My sweet." The Count's smile was radiant. "You will never regret it. I do not drown my brides in a bath. Indeed, I promise you shall never take a bath. We will keep coals in every bathroom."
Indifferent to the fact that he had an audience of nursemaids, he caught her in his arms and forced her head back under the pressure of his kiss.
"What startling technique," she said with forced flippancy.
"Have you never been kissed before?" asked the Count.
"Didn't I tell you I had two children?" Her voice was still breathless. "Remind me some other time to tell you I've been married."
"Married to an old man. Your husband went to school with your father."
"But he was in the lower school, while Father was a prefect."
"Then he must have been very backward."
Georgia was conscious that she tried to feel resentful, yet could not force her indignation. She watched with some dismay as the Count began to pick the small pink begonias which helped to form the pattern of a strip of carpet-bedding.
"You mustn't," she protested. "It's against the regulations."
He only laughed as he put one bloom in his buttonhole