An acute attack of self-consciousness invaded Denis. He was amongst those—they were in the majority—who had neither been introduced themselves, nor had anyone else introduced to them, and the absence of these formalities left him uncertain, and afraid of doing the wrong thing.
Moreover there were not nearly enough chairs to go round. This was pointed out by the lady in black. She looked exactly as Denis had imagined that a successful lady-novelist—for so he designated her in his thoughts—would look—dark, and massive, and rather imperious. She might have been any age between forty-eight and sixty. Her voice was deep, and rather commanding.
"Some of you must take cushions, and sit on the edge of the cliff. Don't fall over."
Mrs. Romayne threw herself into one of the wicker armchairs. Denis hesitated, looked round for Angie Moon, and saw with disgust that she and Buckland, carrying cushions, had already disappeared into the shadow of the olive trees that fringed the little terrace on the cliffs.
"It's much nicer outside. Let's go," said, in a very soft voice, one of the girls who had stood up when first they came in, and had shaken hands rather indiscriminately.
She picked up some more coloured cushions.
"Allow me."
Denis became more at ease with the utterance of one of his favourite formulas. It made him feel chivalrous to take the cushions from the girl and carry them out, and she was so tiny that he unconsciously had the illusion of being himself tall, and strong, and protective.
He glanced at her once or twice, as they settled themselves in an angle of wall and tree-trunk, very close to the edge of the rocks, and she lit a cigarette.
She was so small and slight that she could almost have been mistaken for a child, and there was something childish also in her little round head, with the fine, straight dark hair, hanging in a fringe almost to her eyebrows. Her narrow little olive face was striking rather than pretty, but her eyes—enormous and brilliant—shone like dancing amber flames above the glow of her cigarette.
"Won't you smoke too?"
"Thank you, I think I will."
He took a cigarette from the black enamel case she held out to him, noting from force of habit, as the indigent do, that it, as well as the cigarettes inside it, was of an expensive variety.
He prepared himself to begin the conversation with the enquiry: "Do you know the South of France well?"
He thought this was a very good opening, and had made use of it several times already.
The girl, however, spoke just as he was going to do so.
"What's your name?"
Denis was startled.
"I beg your pardon—I'm so sorry. Of course, I ought to have introduced myself. My name is Waller. I came with Mrs. Romayne, from the Hôtel d'Azur. I—I happen to be staying there."
She ignored the last part of his speech.
"What else besides Waller?"
"What else?"
"What other name, I mean?"
"Oh. Denis. My full name is Denis Hannaford Waller."
"Mine's Chrissie Challoner."
"Are you——"
In the extremity of his astonishment, Denis faced round at her in the moonlight.
"You're not the—the lady who writes books?"
She nodded, looking oddly like a small child confessing to a misdeed.
"I'd no idea," said Denis confusedly. "I never thought you'd be so young, for one thing."
"I'm twenty-eight, but I know I look much younger than that. It's rather luck for me, isn't it? You see, I've been writing ever since I was nineteen."
"To tell you the truth, I thought the lady in black—the tall one—must be Miss Challoner."
"That's Mrs. Wolverton-Gush—Gushie. She's doing secretary for me for the time being—only it's mostly housekeeping."
"Are you—are you writing a book just now?" asked Denis reverently. He had a tremendous and indiscriminate admiration for any form of creative work.
"I'm correcting the proofs of my last one. It'll be out in October."
"May I—am I allowed to ask what it's called?"
She laughed.
"You may ask anything you like—I don't mind. But you're not obliged to pretend you're interested, you know. It's not as if I was a celebrity. I don't suppose you'd ever heard of me, before this evening."
"Indeed I had," said Denis quickly. "I know some of your work, in fact."
Instantly, he wished he had not said it. He didn't want to tell lies to Chrissie Challoner—he had only done so from habit.
"Do you really?" she said wistfully.
To Denis's incredulous astonishment, he heard himself replying: "No. That wasn't true. I haven't really read any of your books. I don't know why I said I had, just now, except, I suppose, that I wanted you to like me. But I can't say what isn't true, to you."
Almost as the words left his lips, he would have given anything to recall them. She'd think him mad—loathe and despise him. His whole body was invaded by a burning heat, and then an icy cold.
He had barely time to know it before she answered, in a quick, warm rush of words.
"I think it's wonderful of you to tell me that. The biggest compliment that anyone has ever paid me."
A gratitude so intense that it almost choked him, caught Denis by the throat. He had scarcely known, until then, that generosity could exist, for weaknesses such as his.
"I didn't know—I didn't think you'd understand," he stammered, the sense of exquisite relief bringing him perilously near to the tears that he always dreaded, because they came to him with such terrible readiness.
"But of course I do," she said softly. "I know why you wanted to—fib—it's so easy, isn't it?—and then how you wished you hadn't. Lots of people are like that. But not one in a thousand ever does what you did, afterwards."
"Oh—" said Denis, and to his horror, his voice broke slightly. "I didn't know there was anybody like you—anybody who'd understand."
"You poor boy!" she said under her breath, and without surprise, with only an upwelling sense of unspeakable comfort and reassurance, he felt her hand seeking for his, and clasping it.
"You're marvellous," said Denis, under his breath.
"Hasn't anyone ever given you any sort of understanding before?"
He shook his head dumbly.
"Have you been terribly lonely, always?"
"Always. My mother died when I was six. They sent me to a boarding-school where I wasn't happy—I was bullied, rather—" He shuddered, and hurried on quickly, warding off memories that he had avoided for years. "I wasn't ever very strong, physically, and I suppose I was sensitive. I was always unhappy, I know."
"Your father wasn't any good to you?"
"He married again. My stepmother didn't like me. She said I was deceitful, and told lies. I dare say it was true—in fact I know it was. You see, I was frightened."
"I know."
The passionate pity in her voice entranced him. He could scarcely believe it was really for him.
"You were frightened because you knew they wouldn't understand, and you thought they'd laugh at you, or despise you," she added softly. "And sometimes, those fears come to life again now, and make you say