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dress, the arms bare from the shoulders. She was wearing sandals and a wide-brimmed floppy hat. She did not look fifteen. “Now you’ve got to bring every picture that you’ve got, not only the ones you showed me,” she insisted.
    â€œSome of them I’m not too certain of.”
    â€œBring them all the same. Artists are often wrong about their work. And besides one often learns a lot about an artist from his half-successes, the things he’s tried at and only half brought off.”
    It was a typical Mediterranean day; the sky was cloudless, but a cool breeze was blowing off the sea. She pulled off her hat and tossed it into the rumble seat beside his pictures.
    â€œOur villa’s at Mougins, barely an hour’s drive,” she said. “It’s very simple. A converted cottage. But it’s so much our own. We’ve made it ourselves; everything in it we chose ourselves. I feel much more at home there than I do at Charlton.”
    â€œCharlton?”
    â€œOur home in England. It’s an impressive place, one of the houses that are always being reproduced in articles. But it’s something that’s been handed down. It’s not so personal. Charlton and you’ve never heard of it. But of course youwouldn’t. Don’t you think that makes it rather exciting, our having become friends without knowing anything about each other?”
    She turned and looked at him. There was an eager sense of adventure in her voice, but she was wearing sun glasses; he could not read the expression in her eyes.
    â€œDo you mind if we go the long way via Cannes?” she said. “There’s a dress I’m wanting to collect.”
    She chattered gaily as she drove past cypresses and fir trees along the lower road, pointing out laughingly the absurd pink crenelated villa on the summit of Montboron.
    â€œIt used to be called ‘Smith’s Folly.’ It’s had a notice board up as long as I can remember. I wish someone I knew would take it so that I could see what it’s like inside. I’ve always been meaning to get the keys from the agent and have a look.”
    In the harbor at the foot of the hill, a small but smart, freshly painted liner was moored against the quay. She slowed down as she drove past.
    â€œWhenever I see a boat about to sail I want to get on it.”
    â€œWhere’s that one going?”
    â€œCorsica.”
    â€œHave you never been there?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œI can’t think why. I’m always meaning to. It’s just one of the things I’ve never got around to.”
    â€œI’d thought of going there myself, but then I thought I’d get more out of St. Tropez and the places beyond Toulon.”
    â€œBut I thought you were sailing for America early in October.”
    â€œI am. I’ve only just time to see them all.”
    â€œThen that means you’ll be leaving Villefranche fairly soon.”
    â€œAt the end of the week.”
    â€œI see.”
    She drove on in silence for a moment, but only for a moment; they turned into the quai Etats Unis and once again she was chattering gaily while they drove past the picturesque succession of bungalow-fronted restaurants. She pointed out one of them to Francis, La Maison Rouge.
    â€œHenry says that they make better ravioli than anyone in Italy. He often gives parties there. And unless I watch him carefully he always misdirects our guests by telling them to meet him at the quai du Midi. He can never remember thathalf the streets in Nice have been rechristened. He still talks about the Avenue de la Gare.” She chuckled merrily. “Poor Henry. He does hate the way the Riviera’s changing. Every time I come back he asks me the same question. “What new horrors have gone up since yesterday?’ “
    She slowed down again as they turned into the long curve of the Promenade des Anglais. The narrow strip of sand past the Casino was