"Then," said Melisande, "I will say good night."

Mr. Randall was at the door to open it for her.

She sailed through. She ran up the stairs to her attic. She locked the door, sat on the bed and laughed. She thought: How Genevra would have enjoyed that! Then a terrible longing came over her to be with Genevra again, to laugh with her, to exchange this sparsely furnished little attic for her luxurious apartments at Fenella's, to wear beautiful clothes, to chatter in Fenella's salon, and above all to see Fermor there.

Then she threw herself on to the bed and laughed until she cried.

But she must pull herself together. She got up and bathed her face. After the visitor had gone she would be needed to help her mistress prepare for bed. Mrs. Lavender should not have the pleasure of seeing that she had shed tears.

She would, of course, be given notice to leave. Very well, she would have to find herself something this time. And somehow she would make a new life for herself. She would live again.

Being alive again meant a return of pride, a return of hope. She indulged in day-dreams now, as she had when she was a child at the Convent.

She was Melisande to whom wonderful things must happen. She had been hurt and she had allowed that hurt to crush her. She remembered the little punishments at the Convent, which had seemed enormous at the time. She remembered the first time she had been sent to the sewing-room and kept there for three hours. It had seemed a lifetime. And in the same way now, a few weeks seemed a lifetime. But the gloom always passed and the brightness broke through ... as it would now.

She had several happy dreams, but none of them could be carried to a satisfactory conclusion. None could be complete in itself. One was that Sir Charles repented of his pride and came to claim her; he took her back to live in Cornwall. But how could she go on with that dream ? What of Caroline, his daughter ? Was Caroline alive ? Was Caroline dead? Then she dreamed that she was married to Fermor. But where was Caroline in that dream? Caroline must always be there; Caroline alive made their union impossible. Did Caroline dead make it equally so? Sometimes she thought of Leon— not the Leon she remembered, tortured by a terrible tragedy, furtively looking about him as it seemed for the accusing eyes of those who believed him guilty of a callous deed, but a Leon who was a combination of himself, Fermor, and her new acquaintance Thorold Randall. Sometimes she dreamed that Fenella found her and took her back, and that in the salon she met a stranger; he was this new combination of Fermor, Leon and Thorold Randall.

She clung to these dreams. They represented hope. She took new pride in her appearance. She was so pretty, and it became pleasant once more to accept the little attentions which were the natural homage of beauty like hers, and which came from cab drivers, policemen and men in shops to which she went on errands for Mrs. Lavender. All that gave her confidence, new weapons with which to fight the Lavenders.

This was being alive again.

Strangely enough Mrs. Lavender made no reference to the little scene which had taken place in the drawing-room. She had decided to overlook it and put it down to foreign temperament. Melisande knew then that Mrs. Lavender was by no means displeased with her work.

Two days after the whist party, on the occasion of her free afternoon, Melisande came out of the house to find Thorold Randall standing idly outside.

She was pleasantly startled. This was Melisande reborn, eager for excitement. Her green eyes sparkled.

"Why," he said, "it's Miss Martin."

"You want to see Mrs. Lavender ? She is resting. But Mr. Lavender is at home."

"I wish to see neither of them. But I was waiting for someone."

"Oh?"

"I should like to offer my condolences for the other night. I was distressed."

"I was not. I was glad."

"Glad to be treated as you were! A young lady like yourself?"

"A lady's maid, Mr. Randall. You forget that."

"I forget nothing. It is distressing to see a young lady like yourself treated in such a way."

"Then that is very good of you. I will thank you and say goodbye."

"Please don't say goodbye. May I walk a little way with you?"

"But you are waiting for someone."

"For you, of course."

"But how did you know I should be free?"

"A little careful enquiry."

She laughed. "Then it was doubly good. First to wait and tell me you are sorry. And second for taking so much trouble to do so."

As they walked along, he said: "There were unpleasant consequences? She er ..."

"I am still her maid. She has said nothing of the incident. So you see you should not be so sorry for me. You will make me sorry for myself, and it is not good to pity oneself. If you are not pleased with life ... then you must seek some means of changing it."

"It is not always possible to change it."

"Then one must make it possible."

"You are a strange young lady. I thought at first how quiet you were that evening ... how meek."

"Crushed!" she cried. "Mrs. Lavender had her foot on my neck. That is what you thought. It was not so. I just did not care that night. Then suddenly ... I arise. I throw off the foot, and there I am, ready to fight for my dignities ... my rights to be treated not as a lady's maid but as a person."

"Why are you doing such work?"

"Why does one work? Perhaps there is a vocation, and that is one answer. Perhaps one wants to eat, and that is another. Tell me, Mr. Randall, do you work, and for which reason?"

"A little of both. I too must eat. My income is too small for my needs. I am in the Guards. You can call it a vocation."

"So you are a soldier! I must walk this way. I am going to visit a friend who lives near the Strand."

"Then I will walk that way too."

"So you wish to be a soldier and you wish to earn money. You are one of the lucky ones. You do the work you like and by doing it you earn money."

"I hadn't thought of it like that until now. Thanks for pointing it out, Miss Martin."

"My name is St. Martin. Mrs. Lavender calls me Martin because my Christian name is too long and unsuitable; and no lady's maid could be called 'Saint' by her employer."

"Miss St. Martin. And may I know your Christian name?"

"It is Melisande."

"It's beautiful and it suits you. Melisande St. Martin. We have a St. Martin in the regiment. I wonder if you are related to him. His people have an estate in Berkshire."

"Oh, no, no, no! St. Martin is not the name of my family. I was an orphan ... left in a convent, you see. I think neither the name of my father nor my mother is St. Martin."

"I see. What a mysterious person you are! May I call you Melisande? Oh, believe me, that is not meant to be impertinent. It is just that St. Martin seems so remote. Melisande—that is entirely yours, and so charming."

"Then do—providing you do not address me so if there should be another whist party, and I am called up to make a fourth."

"I promise, Melisande."

"I turn off here ... I am going to visit a friend."

"Let me accompany you."

"Her name is Mrs. Chubb, and I had a room in her house. She is so kind. And so is her daughter Ellen who is all-powerful in the the world of cooks and ladies' maids. She found me my post with Mrs. Lavender."

"Would you think it impertinent if I asked what you were doing before that?"

"No. I should not think it impertinent, but I might not wish to answer. Here is Mrs. Chubb's house, and I will say goodbye."

"May I wait for you?"

"Oh, but you must not."

"I should like to. Then I could escort you back."

"It is not necessary."

"Please ... as a pleasure, not as a necessity."

"But I may be a very long time."

Mrs. Chubb, who had been watching through the curtains, opened the door.

"Why, here you are then. I thought I heard footsteps. Oh ... and not alone!"

"Mrs. Chubb, Mr. Randall. This is Mrs. Chubb, Mr. Randall— my very good friend who has been so kind to me."

Mr. Randall bowed, and Mrs. Chubb summoned her instinct and, obeying its commands, took a liking to him on the spot.

"Well, you'll come in, won't you?" she said.

Thorold Randall said he would be delighted.

Mrs. Chubb bustled them into her parlour. She glanced quickly at the daguerrotype as though she were asking Mr. Chubb to take note of her visitors.

"It is so kind of you," murmured Mr. Randall. "Such hospitality ... to a stranger ..."

Mrs. Chubb went to the kitchen to fetch the refreshments she had prepared.

He was a gentleman. Trust her to know that. A handsome gentleman, too; and he could provide the right ending for her favourite lodger. Mrs. Chubb's instinct had always told her what was what; and right from the beginning it had told her Melisande was not cut out for servitude. Here was the answer; a handsome man who was already half in love with her and would very soon be completely so, who would offer her a devotion rivalled only by that which Mr.

Chubb had given his wife, and a great deal more in worldly goods besides, Mrs. Chubb was sure.

Mrs. Chubb felt like a fairy godmother. She had done this—she and Ellen between them.

Following that afternoon there were other meetings.

The Gunters knew of them, and they smiled delightedly. Sarah said it was lovely, and that it made her cry every time she thought of it. Mrs. Lavender was unaware of what was happening, because she was aware of little except her own affairs; but Mr. Lavender continued to watch his wife's lady's maid with an ever-increasing attention.

Thorold Randall had become a more frequent caller at the house; it seemed as if he had discovered a bond between himself and the Lavenders. He could compliment Mrs. Lavender as she liked to be complimented, and he was knowledgeable about Mr. Lavender's favourite topic—horses and their chances.

But always he was alert for the appearance of Melisande; and whenever he came to the house he found some means of speaking to her.

Melisande's half-day came round again. She knew that when she left the house she would find Thorold Randall waiting for her. She enjoyed his company; it seemed to her that he was growing more and more like that picture she had built up of that man who was a little like Fermor, a little like Leon, and a little like himself.

For instance, there were times when there seemed to be a certain boldness in him—and that was Fermor. At others he would talk of the lonely life he led, for he was an orphan and had been brought up by an aunt and uncle who had had little time to spare for him, and he would then remind her of Leon. And then he was himself— courteous, almost humble in his desire to please. She was very happy to have him as her friend.

He was waiting for her when she left the house.

"It's a lovely day," she said. "Let us walk in the Park."

She did not often walk there now. She remembered drives with Genevra, Clotilde and Lucie, and she could not enter the Park without fearing to meet them. Moreover young ladies did not walk in the Park alone—that was asking for trouble. But now she was no longer afraid; it was as though she were tempting adventure. If she met anyone from Fenella's house she would feel safe, for she was becoming firmly settled in her new life.

It was pleasant to walk along by the Serpentine chatting with Thorold. He took her arm and led the conversation—as he did so often—away from himself to her.

She said: "You are unusual. Most people wish to talk of their affairs, not to hear about those of other people."

"Perhaps when I am with others, I talk of myself. But you interest me so much ... far more than myself."

"Nobody is quite as interested in others as in themselves surely."

"Here is one who is so interested in another person that everything else now seems unimportant."

"Ah! You would flatter me. What is it you wish to know of me?"

"I should like to look into your mind and see everything that is there, to know your thoughts. What do you think of me, for instance ?"

"I think that you are most kind and courteous to me always, as you were from the beginning."

"Would you like to hear what I think of you?"