Free The Black Benedicts by Anita Charles

were sitting comfortably in an alcove, screened by sheaves of the pure w hite lilac which sent forth all the perfume of the South of France into the softly lit and deliciously-warmed atmosphere.
    Miss Martingale, who looked like something out of an old French painting, and about whose looks as well as her dancing so many enthusiasts raved, predicting a future as great as Pavlovas, was almost constantly in Mallory ’ s thoughts and she kept asking herself—would such a one be willing to give up adulation and applause and endless success in order to become the wife of such a man as Raife Benedict? He had so much to offer her, and if she looked ahead into the future she might decide that security —complete security—would be worth far more than even the certainty of many more triumphs in the years which might lie ahead. And if she happened to be in love...
    Hugging the kitten in her arms, Mallory stood up and approached her window. Footsteps on the terrace below her caused her to look down, taking care to remain screened by her own curtains, and there were two figures emerging on to the terrace, despite the bright, starlit chill of the night, and the woman ’ s figure was shrouded in a soft fur coat—probably mink, Mallory thought!—over her long gold evening dress, with which she wore emerald ear-rings, and elbow-length gloves of emerald velvet. The man beside her was tall and arrogant, and with his hands in his pockets disdained even a scarf about his neck as they wandered forth and crossed the smooth lawns, disappearing finally into the denser darkness which meant that they had been swallowed up by a maze of shrubberies.
    Mallory let her curtains drop back into place and decided that she had better begin her preparations for bed. But she found herself sighing suddenly.
    It must be rather nice to be a ballet dancer...!

 
    CHAPTER EIGHT
    S pring came in with a really determined rush less than a week later. Everything was early, even the azaleas in the winding drive ware putting forth every evidence of displaying the full perfection of their beauty within a very short space of time. Mallory was looking forward to seeing them at their best, for Mrs. Carpenter had told her that they formed a solid wall of colour mining almost from the drive gates half-way up to the house, where the rhododendrons began, and that amongst them was every delectable tint imaginable, from creamy pink to burnished copper.
    T he wallflowers were out, too, under the south terrace, and their perfume filled the air on that side of the house. Wave after wave of daffodils danced in the wind beneath the still bare-branched trees which guarded the carefully kept lawns, and the long-stemmed purple irises formed splashes of colour in the shade. The orchard grass was rapidly lengthening, and amongst it the birds-eye narcissi waved graceful heads and simply demanded to be gathered into scented armsful for the house, and on the terrace the picturesque stone vases were sending out trails of aubretia emboldened by the deceptively early spring.
    Mallory, during her daily walks with Serena, sometimes caught sight of Miss Martingale reclining on the terrace, well wrapped-up and protected by rugs, her extended chaise-lounge offering the restful ease for one who was recovering from w hat the newspapers had described as a breakdown as a result of overwork . She was obviously making the most of the sunshine, from which she nevertheless protected her eyes by wearing dark glasses, and usually her host was beside her, either reclining less elegantly in a c hair or straddling one of the stone lions which also decorated the terrace.
    Sometimes the other members of the house-party were scattered about the terrace, too, or Mallory and Serena would meet them on their walks, well turned out by London tailors and shoemakers who had little idea of what were the real needs of life in the country. The white-haired John Carmichael, Miss Martingale ’ s closest shadow next to