Buckland burst out laughing.
"They sprayed it all over with scent, or something. It's stinking like a street-walker's."
"You would know that, wouldn't you?" retorted Mrs. Romayne.
Mr. Bolham, to whom the conversation appeared offensive in the extreme, sought to distract his own attention from it, and averted his look from the speakers. It fell instead upon Patrick Romayne.
The white, puzzled dismay on the boy's face, his pitiful attempts to seem amused, filled Mr. Bolham with a sudden horror. What on earth was going on beneath that surface of immaturity, that young inarticulateness? The mind of Mr. Bolham, at all times distrustful of personal relations, violently protested against any consideration of such a question. He had no wish to become involved with any emotional situation, least of all one that concerned the affairs of Mrs. Romayne, her insufferable young bounder of a tutor, and her sixteen-year-old son.
The waiter arrived with drinks, for which Muller signed the bill.
"Have you seen the new couple? They only arrived yesterday," Mrs. Romayne said, without troubling to lower her voice.
Muller—habitually a silent man—said "Yeah" and Buckland exclaimed, with his usual familiarity:
"The girl's marvellous. Quite extraordinarily pretty."
"Have you succeeded in speaking to her yet?" enquired his employer derisively.
"Not yet, but I'm hoping to, on the rocks or somewhere. They're going bathing, presently—I heard them say so."
"If you get off with her, I suppose I must see what I can do with him. He looks as though he might be able to dive."
"What's the good of that, when you can't?"
"He can save my life," pointed out Mrs. Romayne.
She finished her Martini and stood up. She was tall and well made, astonishingly slim for a woman who was certainly over forty, and with definite good looks, and even charm. She was common, reflected Mr. Bolham, but she at least avoided the supreme commonness of affectation.
"Who's coming? Mr. Muller?"
"I don't think so, thanks." Muller politely rose to his feet. Waller, who had not spoken at all, nervously followed his example, looked round and saw that Buckland had not stirred, and sat down again.
"Coming?" said Mrs. Romayne carelessly. "Hell, I believe I've forgotten my bathing-shoes. I must have them, if we're going to that beastly plage down here. Or shall we get the car and run up to the rocks?"
"Yes," said Buckland. "I'll give you another diving lesson."
"Not sure if I want one."
"Yes, you do."
She made a face at him.
"Patrick, d'you want to bring the car round for your mother?" Buckland enquired, still without moving.
The boy looked at his mother.
"He isn't allowed to drive," she said, her eyes on her son's tutor all the time.
"Yes he is, if I say so. Cut along, Patrick."
"May I, mother?" said Patrick doggedly.
"I suppose so, if Buck says so."
The boy walked away, acute self-consciousness in every movement of his tall, overgrown figure. The laughter of his mother and the tutor—the pointless, spontaneous laughter of people who are exhilarated by one another's companionship, rather than amused—rang across the terrace.
"Well——" said Muller vaguely.
He moved towards the Hotel again.
"Can I fetch your shoes for you, Mrs. Romayne?" the sallow Waller enquired.
"Oh, don't bother. I mean, why should you?"
"No bother at all," said Waller eagerly. "A pleasure, I assure you."
He sped into the Hotel.
"God, anybody would think he came from behind a counter," ungratefully remarked Mrs. Romayne. "Come on, Buck. What a slack creature you are!"
She pulled the tutor out of his chair, and then stood, still holding his hands, laughing.
"Come down with us, Mr. Bolham."
"Thank you very much, I'm not going to bathe again just yet."
From the corner of his eye he saw the Morgan family gather up their bathing gear and prepare to start.
"We could give those kids a lift," said Mrs. Romayne. "They've no car."
She turned and shouted to the Morgan children.
"D'you want to go to the rocks? We're going, and you can come along with us. Plenty of room."
The mother of the children was with them. She came up.
"Thank you so much. It's very kind of you."
How strange, thought Mr. Bolham, to hear the accents of a well-bred English woman on the Côte d'Azur—or, for that matter, anywhere at all, in these days.
He looked at Mrs. Morgan. She was tall and slight, with a delicate, intelligent, colourless face, very beautiful deep blue eyes, and fair hair, coiled over her ears in shells. It was now of a neutral tint, but he felt sure that it had once been as golden as that of her children. Although she looked tired, she was not devitalised. Her eyes and mouth were expressive and mobile, and she carried herself well.
When her eyes met those of Mr. Bolham, she smiled frankly. They had already exchanged a good deal of conversation, and Mr. Bolham knew that his more malicious sallies at the expense of their fellow-guests were not unappreciated by Mrs. Morgan.
Mrs. Romayne, in her pale pink pyjamas, and still holding hands with her son's tutor, looked through, rather than at, the other woman, although with complete amiability, and repeated her offer of driving them all up to the rocks, where there was better bathing to be had than from the plage. David and Gwennie, the two younger children, were already hopping about eagerly.
"Please, mummie, may we?"
"Certainly."
Olwen, the eldest, said: "We said Dulcie might come and bathe with us this evening."
"My God," said Mrs. Romayne. "Well, I suppose one more doesn't make any difference. Only hurry up, if you want to go and fetch her. Here's the car."
The car, an enormous Buick, was coming round the corner from the Hotel garage.
Waller returned with Mrs. Romayne's shoes. When she thanked him, he replied: "Don't mention it, please."
The children climbed into the car, Dulcie effusively and tiresomely grateful, and Buckland said to Patrick Romayne:
"Out you get, my lad, I'm driving."
"Why can't I?"
"Because we value our lives, even if you don't," retorted the tutor smartly, and looked round for approval. Waller, Mrs. Romayne, and Dulcie Courteney all laughed, and the boy at the wheel turned rather white.
"Climb out, Pat," directed his mother. "Get in at the back. Buck, I'm coming next you."
She took her place next to the driver.
"Here—you—" her look indicated Denis Waller. "Why don't you come along too? Heaps of room."
Waller, looking at Mr. Bolham, protested insincerely.
"If I'm not wanted elsewhere——"
"Go, by all means," said Mr. Bolham sourly.
"If you're sure—but really—If I'm not trespassing on Mrs. Romayne's kindness ... I could quite well walk——"
"Get in!" shouted the hearty