appealed to her. The walls were cream-colored, and the ceiling low, so that the beautiful carved posts of the half-tester bed seemed almost to touch it. The bed itself was in a kind of alcove and on a little table beside it there was a telephone and a bowl of richly scented deep pink roses.
The dressing table stood in a petticoat of highly glazed English chintz, and Josie wondered for a moment who was responsible for the couple of new English novels, and the flagon of expensive toilet-water that reposed to the top. She decided that it must have been Dona Maria. But the thing that filled her with more pleasure than anything else was the tiny, beautifully private balcony outside her room, with its comfortable chair and little table whereon her early morning tea tray, or breakfast tray, could be set down, while the whole of the Costa Brava coast—or so it seemed—was spread out before her eyes. And the thing she admired more than anything else was a handsome and courtly prie-dieu, with a velvet cushion the rose-red of the bed curtains, worn and slightly threadbare from continuous kneeling, that stood in a little recess near the window, with an ivory crucifix on the wall above it.
Mrs. Duveen’s room was not greatly dissimilar, but instead of roses she had carnations beside her bed, and her flagon of perfume was something really choice. Michael’s room adjoining a sitting-room wherein he could rest when he felt unable—or perhaps disinclined—to join the others, and here nothing was lacking for his comfort, and he expressed himself as exceedingly well satisfied.
“Didn’t I tell you, Josie,” he said to her, while she was drawing the curtains in his room for his afternoon siesta, “that Spain was well worth a visit? That it had a great deal to offer?”
And she wondered, because his expression looked a little dreamy as he lay staring into the pleasant gloom she had created, whether he really was thinking of Spain at that moment, or whether it was Dona Maria who occupied his thoughts; Dona Maria who had surprised him—and disturbed him?—just a little.
That night, while she was wondering what she would choose to wear in which to make her appearance at dinner, Mrs. Duveen came fussing in from the bathroom, clutching her bathrobe, and with her hair tucked beneath a net and her face a protective mask of cold cream, so that she looked anything but attractive for once. Her manner was a trifle diffident, but it didn’t prevent her from coming to the point almost immediately.
“Look here, my dear,” she said. “I know you’ll understand perfectly, and you won’t take this amiss ... But the situation here is a little different to when we were all three staying at the hotel. There, of course, you had as much right to use the dining room as anyone else, and no one thought it odd that you should share all our meals with Michael and myself. To the management you were just another guest. But here...”
“Yes?” Josie inquired quietly, while Mrs. Duveen picked up the toilet water, and sniffed at it, and then put it down again.
“Here we are not all invited guests—I mean, you are an employee...”
“I think I understand what you are trying to say,” Josie said, but she was conscious of a distinct sensation of shock. Although when she thought about it afterwards she was not at all sure that she had had any right to feel shocked.
“You do, dear?” Mrs. Duveen looked relieved. “Then you won’t think it’s because I don’t want you to join us at dinner if I point out to you that—after all, the Marquis de Palheiro is a marquis, and although he’s very charming, and extremely kind to everyone—especially his own domestic staff, who, I believe, adore him—there is such a thing as taking advantage of that kindness, and if I try to thrust you amongst his guests ... There may be other people invited for dinner tonight, and I don’t have to make myself any clearer, do I...?”
“Of course not,” Josie
The dressing table stood in a petticoat of highly glazed English chintz, and Josie wondered for a moment who was responsible for the couple of new English novels, and the flagon of expensive toilet-water that reposed to the top. She decided that it must have been Dona Maria. But the thing that filled her with more pleasure than anything else was the tiny, beautifully private balcony outside her room, with its comfortable chair and little table whereon her early morning tea tray, or breakfast tray, could be set down, while the whole of the Costa Brava coast—or so it seemed—was spread out before her eyes. And the thing she admired more than anything else was a handsome and courtly prie-dieu, with a velvet cushion the rose-red of the bed curtains, worn and slightly threadbare from continuous kneeling, that stood in a little recess near the window, with an ivory crucifix on the wall above it.
Mrs. Duveen’s room was not greatly dissimilar, but instead of roses she had carnations beside her bed, and her flagon of perfume was something really choice. Michael’s room adjoining a sitting-room wherein he could rest when he felt unable—or perhaps disinclined—to join the others, and here nothing was lacking for his comfort, and he expressed himself as exceedingly well satisfied.
“Didn’t I tell you, Josie,” he said to her, while she was drawing the curtains in his room for his afternoon siesta, “that Spain was well worth a visit? That it had a great deal to offer?”
And she wondered, because his expression looked a little dreamy as he lay staring into the pleasant gloom she had created, whether he really was thinking of Spain at that moment, or whether it was Dona Maria who occupied his thoughts; Dona Maria who had surprised him—and disturbed him?—just a little.
That night, while she was wondering what she would choose to wear in which to make her appearance at dinner, Mrs. Duveen came fussing in from the bathroom, clutching her bathrobe, and with her hair tucked beneath a net and her face a protective mask of cold cream, so that she looked anything but attractive for once. Her manner was a trifle diffident, but it didn’t prevent her from coming to the point almost immediately.
“Look here, my dear,” she said. “I know you’ll understand perfectly, and you won’t take this amiss ... But the situation here is a little different to when we were all three staying at the hotel. There, of course, you had as much right to use the dining room as anyone else, and no one thought it odd that you should share all our meals with Michael and myself. To the management you were just another guest. But here...”
“Yes?” Josie inquired quietly, while Mrs. Duveen picked up the toilet water, and sniffed at it, and then put it down again.
“Here we are not all invited guests—I mean, you are an employee...”
“I think I understand what you are trying to say,” Josie said, but she was conscious of a distinct sensation of shock. Although when she thought about it afterwards she was not at all sure that she had had any right to feel shocked.
“You do, dear?” Mrs. Duveen looked relieved. “Then you won’t think it’s because I don’t want you to join us at dinner if I point out to you that—after all, the Marquis de Palheiro is a marquis, and although he’s very charming, and extremely kind to everyone—especially his own domestic staff, who, I believe, adore him—there is such a thing as taking advantage of that kindness, and if I try to thrust you amongst his guests ... There may be other people invited for dinner tonight, and I don’t have to make myself any clearer, do I...?”
“Of course not,” Josie
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