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address.’
    ‘I don’t see that makes any difference.’
    ‘Then you’re interested?’
    After a moment she said, ‘It isn’t an easy decision to make at a moment’s notice, is it? I’d have to think about it.’
    ‘I’ll ring you,’ he said. ‘Where do I find you in the directory?’
    ‘I’ll write it down,’ she told him. She got tired of people exclaiming ‘Are you Douglas Harper’s daughter, then?’
    Next to the telephone number she wrote, Tirza. When she handed him the small white card he glanced up at her, ‘Tirza?’
    ‘Mrs Meeker will probably answer,’ she told him, and sounded suddenly tired and impatient. ‘Now, if you don’t mind ... I’m terribly tired.’
    ‘All right,’ he said, ‘let’s not argue about it.’
    Her eyes followed him moodily as he went outside to where his Alfa-Romeo was parked beneath the white pillars with the twining pink and yellow roses. She heard the engine start, and then the lights came on. As he drove past the wide steps he tooted twice.
    In her room, with the white fireplace and blue-and-white Delft tiles, she cried a little, feeling bruised and bewildered—but not much, for she had made the discovery, a long time ago, that tears did not help. Instead, she put her head back on her pillows and her lashes went down and she allowed herself to sink into a kind of comatose state of sheer misery.

CHAPTER TWO
    The following day was blustery, but, with its thick cream rug and the dark-green ornamental tree which grew in a container placed in a huge basket to one side of the tremendous small-paned windows, Tirza’s room was cool and calm.
    Mrs Meeker sent coffee to her room and the maid placed it on the table, beside the bed.
    ‘Thank you.’ Tirza sat up. She was wearing a striped cotton man’s shirt—one of several she liked to wear. She had gone shopping with Nigel one day, and had bought several shirts because the colours were so striking. The shop was called Do Your Own Thing.
    ‘Sadie, please tell Mrs Meeker not to cook breakfast for me. I’m not hungry.’
    She felt disinclined to face the day and sank back on her pillows thinking about Nigel Wright who had gone out of his way, with measured skill, to woo her. It all fell into pattern now, she thought bitterly ... his dislike of crowds, always choosing those discreet little restaurants, drives which led to quiet fishing villages. A wildness came over her that a man should do this to her. What was it Hugo Harrington had said last night? You have a lot to learn about men.
    Suddenly, everything about the steely, sophisticated Hugo Harrington was exaggerated in her mind, and a rage built up against him too ... the way he had caught her looking at him and held her eyes for a long disturbing moment, before going over her briefly. The manner in which he had said, ‘Do I know you?’ She would, she could see, have to arm herself against this elusive quality in a galaxy of men who realised the power they had to cause women to make fools of themselves.
    Restlessly, she threw back the bedclothes and stood up. She spent a long time in the bath, brooding on the past month, and was thankful that she had at least found out that Nigel was married after only one month. Things could have been worse for her. It was her friend Sandra Ballington who had said, ‘I suppose you know what you’re doing?’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Well, I’ve seen you about with Nigel Wright. Don’t tell me you didn’t know? He’s married, Tirza.’
    Men like Nigel Wright, she found herself thinking now, shouldn’t marry. Men with a combination of charm and looks which could hardly fail to turn heads, including their own.
    Some time later Mrs Meeker came into her room to find out whether she was feeling ill.
    ‘I’m okay now, thanks. I—I had an upset, but I’m getting over it now,’ said Tirza, moving a bowl of roses out of the sun which was streaming into the lovely room, so that Mrs Meeker would not see her face.
    ‘What